It was my birthday on Monday. A rather significant one - I turned forty years old - and I was massively spoilt by so many people, and felt very happy and blessed. Not at all how I thought I'd feel upon reaching this milestone! But there's something to be said for ageing. Yes, things do become greyer and saggier, the old memory can take a while to crank into gear and birthdays you once thought made a person positively ancient are now only just around the corner ... but to balance all that is the absolute comfort with which I find I now wear my own skin. The confidence I have. The realisation that there's no need to rush through this one life we're given, trying to do everything, be everything, all at once. That things will happen when they're meant to.
And I also deeply appreciate that the more years there are under my belt, the more I have to draw upon as a writer ... and the closer I just might get to working out my writerly neuroses.
I was going to blog about these last points today ... but then found I was recently pipped at the post by one of the very talented Murderati bloggers, David Corbett, who writes so much more eloquently on the topic than I ever could. So instead, I'll be very lazy and simply direct you to his post, The Outer Limits Of Inner Life , for my offering today. (Besides, my neighbour just called to say she's about to bring round a bottle of champagne for a belated birthday drink. Cheers!)
Where was I?
Oh, yes. David Corbett's post.
Read it. Please.