I’m thinking of you today, Marie. I’m thinking of the way we walked arm in arm down the Champs-Élysées, two carefree girls who felt beautiful and invincible; I remember the wonderfully strong coffee in that little café you insisted we try, and our delight at discovering the used book store above it. I remember when the skirts of my dress caught on…
I’m _exhausted_. I don’t just mean that I’m tired; it’s not the sort of tired you feel at the end of the day when you’ve had full and busy and looked up at the clock and realised that it wasn’t even noon yet. I’m _exhausted_. I’m worn out, on almost every level. I just feel completely depleted and I need…
17th March 2012
Sometime ago someone I barely knew asked me what I did for a living, and I replied that I was a writer. She looked sceptical and informed me that I couldn’t call myself a writer unless I’d been published. She then pointedly asked me if I was, indeed, published. Instead of chastising her for her rudeness, I told her that…