Goodreads thinks I should start a blog but I'm not so sure I'll be any good at it. I don't really want to talk about my life outside of writing; a middle aged unemployed woman who has become all but irrelevant to her twelve year old. Do people really want to hear about the writer's block that sometimes plagues me for months or the boredom that accompanies it? Never mind the terror I feel when I convince myself that all I had in me was two good books and now the party's over. I like to say I'm a starving writer, but that implies I just barely support myself with my writing and that's not true. My writing doesn't support me at all. In fact, Amazon hasn't even considered my profit worthy of the cheque it's printed on. They haven't even printed me a cheque yet. And the amount may be so small, I may just frame it. So I wait and I look for a paying job so I can join the rat race after 18 months, and I edit. Yes, I edit. My books are always rife with spelling errors, run-on sentences, and the rare passive voice. I can't help it, it's the way I write so I can get the idea down before it's forever lost. Ideas don't come when they should. They only bombard me in that period when I am just drifting off to sleep, or at 2 am when I stare wide eyed into the dark, except for the thin strip of glaring light at the edge of my bedroom shade. And even sometimes when I do write them down, and read them in the cold light of day, they are simply terrible and I wonder why I thought they were so brilliant at 2 am. But every now and again, the idea finds me and I know instantly it was exactly what I'd been waiting for and I think that maybe, just maybe, there are three good books left in me. apron stringsC.S. Colerain