My not so brilliant career

I should have read My Brilliant Career long long long long long ago. Indeed, I should have been raised on it; been fed it in place of mother's milk. How I would have thrived then to know what ails and exalts me from the start. Indeed I doubt I would have ailed half as much as I did -- and do. Instead, I developed a dairy allergy.

Having finished (Stella) Miles Franklin's youthful masterpiece just this morning, my life already spotted and wrinkled with time's messy march on regardless, and my writing life ('career') a haphazard course of fits and starts; a series of false beginnings and fuzzy full-stops, I feel I am forced to face the facts and begin in earnest all over again, toughened to that O so very grown-up state of knowing what you'd rather not know beyond the innocent bliss of believing in what is not quite true.

But perhaps it is not too late for me. They do say it never is.

I'll keep you posted,

Sacha