I don’t know about you but I genuinely do go a bit mad around this time of year. There’s something about daffodils that make me a bit giddy and gives me the feeling that I should be off somewhere exotic, like Casablanca, sipping strong coffee, having adventures and not worrying about the consequences. After all in the scheme of things it wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans.
But of course there are a few practical issues with running off to far flung places on a whim. The school run is one of them, plus we have to use up that half eaten packet of ham in the fridge by Thursday. This may be the female writers dilemma because like all working women, hang that, all women, we tend to have a lot of things to do. Dare I suggest, though, that for writers it might be even trickier. One minute we are busy working on a highly emotionally charged scene that may result in the climax of the novel and the next we are sorting socks, walking the dog, finding best teddy or searching for the remote.
Plus when you get to a certain age (about 10 plus)running around in daffodils is not considered seemly, especially if you don’t happen to have dog or a child at hand to lend an air of respectability.
Why now? Why at this time of year do I feel restless and excited and uncertain and scared and glad to be scared? I don’t know, maybe its the wind, maybe its the glimpses of blue sky after an age of grey. Perhaps its the promise of summer on a mild day or the glamour of the spring flowers making an appearance in my garden. Or maybe its because my new book is due to be published in April.
Yikes.