Well, I did manage to get a lovely start on my story, I shan't call it a novel yet, although time spent and thought behind it probably only amounted to a couple of pages of writing at the most.
Nevertheless I was vastly pleased with it and determined not to tell my husband that I had started. I would like to surprise him with either a complete or half-way there completed story. A bit unrealistic to think I'd keep it from him for that long. Mainly because I'm a blabbermouth. I find it hard not to tell him what I got him for Christmas.
So I was pleased. Until that is I finally got my coveted Mariana in the mail and have since finished reading it. It's then that I doubt myself, that I could ever write as well as that. I do not feel that I will ever become noted for any literary achievements or be praised by Oprah for my pithy observations, yet I would like to write novels that will be read by women (or man for that matter) who have similar interests to mine. And... I'd like to make some money. No, no lofty ambitions have I to write simply for it's sake alone. I do desire a certain measure of fame, not that I believe I will ever obtain it. After all, who reads these dreary posts of mine? I have yet to generate enough interest to even garner myself one comment or observation.
At this moment, my wishes and desires, without hope of ever coming to fruition are actually painful enough to bring a pang into my chest and tears into my eyes. But enough! I, being at work, cannot afford to turn into a watering pot.
You see, what happens when I read too many English novels. My vocabulary positively vibes of British-isms. Tirrah