I’ve been to a few funerals lately. Not a crazy number. It’s not like a bunch of people suddenly dying all around me. But a few. People of different ages, dying for different reasons.

It’s the kind of thing that makes you think about life and the whole hullabaloo. Why are we here and what’s it all about, and other questions of that kind of ineffable nature.

In the world of writing, there are many unpleasant tasks.

Writing query letters is definitely one of them. Figuring out what to say and how to say it and trying to second guess publishers is never particularly enjoyable. Another one is receiving rejection letters. Mind you, the way the industry works these days, that’s become a rarity. Usually you send a submission in and then you never hear anything again. Come to think of it, that’s not particularly enjoyable either.

Like any writer, I have dreams of being successful. I’d love my books to be broadly available all over the country – even all over the world. I’d love to have kids (and adults) reading my books in homes everywhere. I’d like to be talked about approvingly in the media – in book review journals and on telly. In short, I’d love to be a writing superstar.

People have many different reasons for wishing to be successful. It may be financial – they need the money to survive. It may be personal – more about ego gratification. But for me, I have another motivation. Another reason for wishing, even dreaming, of being successful as a writer. It’s a little out of the ordinary, and I daresay it doesn’t reflect too well on me, but I’m afraid I can’t deny it.

Many years ago, I was at an educational conference.

Yes, believe it or not, I’m actually professional enough to go to conferences every so often (preferably not so often – they’re not my favourite way to spend my time). And, also believe it or not, my day job (or better paying hobby as I like to refer to it) is in the area of education. So it makes sense that I occasionally find myself at an educational conference.

In last week’s post, I talked about how recently reading a book was something of a novel (no pun intended) experience. I didn’t go into the details about why, instead suggesting that this could be the topic for next week’s post.

Well, guess what. It’s next week, and as I don’t seem to have any better ideas, I’m going to make good on that suggestion. Why don’t I read much? The answer will be right here and right now.