Every year I do this. Every year I throw myself to the streets and explode into fiery mess of public self-reflection. Naked, I ask you to look upon me and judge.
Tell me, reader. What do you see?
Currently I’m sat in my garage, writing on the same kitchen table I’ve been working from for the past three years. We moved it from the old house to the new one because I can’t bear to lose it. It's old, the wood marked by coffee stains and abandoned story ideas, chipped with inspiration, and some tomato soup, too.
This here is the battleground. It’s cold and I’ve got this rising panic bubbling in my chest. I’m anxious. Why?
War is coming.
See… 2018 was a strange year for me. I didn’t publish much, didn’t write as many words or as many stories. I consumed more than ever before. I read books by the best, dialled into my craft, wanting to just get better… and better…
At the same time, I towed the line, kept the train moving, shovelling coal onto the fire, always. I greased the wheels when they squeaked, kept the coolant topped up, did the accounts.
And I can’t deny that things are going well. Everything is moving in the right direction, but it’s been a little quieter than previous years.
So here I am… once again at the desk… looking to offer my mind to the great digital gods in the Cloud, preparing for 2019 - the year of War & Art.
See here for the previous end of year reviews: