I used to be a tough young bugger. Nothing much would get to me. I could watch the most emotional and dramatic movie and not bat an eyelid. Even the most weepy scenes would leave me impassive. Not a tear would drop from my eye. Nothing much would move me.

I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the past or reminiscing about things I used to like or people I used to hang out with.

When I was young, I was really obsessive.

Once I got interested in something, it would take up all my attention.

Being a writer means having many goals to aspire to.

Firstly, there are the obvious ones. The initial one that comes to mind is simply write lots of books. And then, once those books have been written, sell lots of copies and have lots of people read them.

A few weeks ago, as I first dipped a nervous toe into the unknown waters of 2019, I published my list of goals for the year.

You may recall that it wasn’t extensive. In fact, the only goal I was prepared to list was making progress on my current novel. The plan was to begin pretty much now. As you read this post, I should already be hard at work pulling apart and putting back together the fairly garbled prose of my first draft. Except I’m not.

I’m really in awe of people who can think on their feet. The kind of people who can come up with ideas in the middle of conversations. The kind of people who can hit you with a quick fire retort without any effort. The kind of people who can figure out how to do things right away, and then get on with it.

I’m not a fast thinker. Far from it. I’m about as opposite as you can ever get. I’m a slow thinker.