I was listening to a reading of part of NZ writer, Janet Frame’s autobiography, An Angel at My Table on the radio yesterday, where she was recounting her early forays into writing and how difficult and challenging it all was for her.
At one stage she describes how when she was working, in the little garden cottage where she worked, she would rule up an exercise book with the date and the number of pages she wanted to write, and the number of pages she actually wrote, and a separate page simply labelled, ‘Excuses’.
Excuses for not writing. We all have them; we probably don’t need to list them, but somehow we’ve got to get over them. Putting off finishing that poem is the easiest decision you can make in a day and maybe one of the worst.