Last week, I was thinking about how close I came to not being a writer. I don't mean about the many times I had - and still do - thought of quitting, but of the time I almost didn't start.
In 2009, I almost emigrated to Canada, I had a job lined up at a book store in Lac La Biche, and I was all set to move when my lovely friend, Faye, died.
This lovely setting could have been my home, I was in the throes of setting up a small business of recycling the many pallets in the yards of local shops into compost containers; all I needed was the rope to tie the sides together and I would have been away. I still miss Faye, and our house, and often wish I had emigrated.
The thoughts of how close I came to not being a writer play no part in my current state of mind, my current malaise is caused by the lack of interest in my writing - perhaps I should have not become a writer after all.