I must say that I am quite fagged out this morning, not really feeling like writing anything. I had intended to follow up The importance of the local press - why it's lost it's way with a further post extending the argument, but after all the writing I have done recently I really don't feel like intense thought.
Still, in all this I did complete and email my next Express column, as well as finishing a major post Sunday and now Monday Essay - personal reflections on Australia's Indigenous peoples on Personal Reflections. When you come to think about it, that's 5,500 or so words over the weekend. Quite a lot.
For a number of reasons I am writing as hard as I can just at present. I write on many topics because that's the way I'm built. I am interested in a lot of things.
One of our cats just came and sat on my lap. Poor Avenger, that name is a real misnomer, has been upset since we moved. Now he is sitting on my foot!
I am quite excited about my writing at the moment because I seem to be making progress. It's still hard because I have so little real time, but I begin to feel that I am getting there, at least in spots.
I write because I have too, but I also try to write with purpose.
Part of it lies in capturing my own slice of the past. This will be lost if no-one records it. Part of it lies in my continued belief in certain causes, in the desire to improve things.
I don't know how many more years I have to write. I am frightened some times that if I die things will be lost. In that event, I know that I am unlikely to care. However, I care now.
I like to think that by year's end I will have my first rough draft of a history of New England in place. Even if rough, I can ensure that copies are in place elsewhere for later use.