A journey of a thousand miles...

Last week I was having a coffee with friend of mine who's taking early retirement soon. I asked her if she'd thought about what she was going to do and she said maybe a bit of consultancy and I nodded and sipped my coffee and all was right with the world.

"Or a might write a book."

I have the worst poker face so I'm glad she wasn't looking at me. It's not that I don't think she could write a book it's just that, well, we've never chatted about books or maybe did she once mention that she reads a lot on holiday?

"Oh, really?! What about?"
"A science fiction novel, I think?"

If anything, this was more of a surprise. But I had recovered my composure by now, so I asked which authors she liked and we had Iain M Banks in common, so we chatted about that for a bit.

And then later, I fell to thinking about the book I'd like to write and my deep-seated doubt that I'll ever get 'round to it. And then I stopped thinking about it. Again.

Last night, at the interval for Kate Bush, when I rang the Minx, I was full of excitement and enthusiasm and I remember saying that - somehow - seeing this show had inspired me to start the book.

But by this evening, I'd forgotten about it again, at least until I saw this lane, leading down into the unknown. And I wondered, really, why do I have such a fear of starting?