turning pages

Last week saw the “Inverness book festival” take place, with sessions for adults and kids in and around Eden Court. Most events were sold out in advance, yet I managed to sneak in two workshops and attend a few readings.

“Leakey’s second hand bookshop” in Inverness’ old gaelic church, a cave out of time.

Exposing oneself to a group of strangers and spending an afternoon together can be stiff and hardgoing, it can also be inspiring and fun, luckily the later was the case. Once I had come to terms with the facts of being one of only three men in a group of 15 and being the youngest by at least 30 years, it was quite enjoyable listening to stories of a different pace and timeliness.

I am making an effort of dedicating more time to reading and writing, as I had long planned, but so far always managed to dismiss. Yesterday night, before going to bed, T had asked what I did it in the afternoon, to which I replied
“I was writing.”
“But papa, you are always writing now!” she complained, my response being
“Yeah that’s what I decided to do, I want to be a writer.”
“Papa, you must get a REAL job!” was the answer to that; well that is me told.

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