Dear Substack,

I've neglected you. I'm sorry for being a terrible friend. Life this year has brought unexpected weather, and I can't quite believe we're about to meet September, that pretty thief of leaves. Remember when the six weeks of school holiday felt like its own era? When it was someone else's job to buy the uniform and shoes?

I've been knee-deep in edits which have been harder and taken longer than expected. I don't know why I thought I was capable of writing a novel with multiple characters and interweaving stories that take place over many years. Why do I do this? Jump into situations without thought as to whether I should or could handle them? At least I’m optimistic.

But there we are. Another draft done. Fourth draft and counting. I'm crossing fingers it's on the money. People often ask how I know which ideas to turn into books, and I always answer that it's the ones that stick around. The idea, the what if, the oooh, that won't leave you alone, the crush you can't put down. It's also the one whose characters intrigue you and who you can't immediately figure out. Yes, I can spend a year with this bunch, you think. They won't drive me mad.

Fast forward two years and you'll dream about strangling them.

That's where I'm at. Too much time spent with imaginary people who just won't mingle in suitable literary ways. All while trying to be something to the ones I didn't make up, or at least the ones my flesh did. I can't lose myself too much in another dimension, must only take flight between the hours of 9-3. Which is actually tricky. When I lose myself in creative play, I want to lose myself completely. It’s osmosis…complete absorption.

And now it’s school holidays, and as I’ve never taken the childcare route (three kids + a childminder = bankruptcy), it’s me who has to step up. Perform, Mum! Bring out the daily dancing band! Keep us entertained! Errrr…I did not train as a party planner. Cue much scratching of head.

What’s that line about the pram in the hall? It’s still there, even after being sold on eBay.

I've thought about you, Substack. I've felt guilty for not being around, bashing out articles and giving subscribers what they want. Except I'm not sure they do want more mail in their inbox, more emails begging to be read. Maybe they're pleased I've gone quiet, unaware of being pleased until this one pops up to remind them of my presence. Unsubscribe.

But there are those who contributed from their pocket for my writing, and it's them to whom I truly owe my SORRY, my gratitude and my words. I hope they know that by allowing me to have this moment of silence, they have been supporting my writing in the truest sense; allowing me the space to get book 3 into shape and move closer to a bookshop shelf. So a thank you to them. And a big virtual kiss. And no hard feelings if you pulled the plug because it really is my bad.

I've also been struggling with what to write. Perhaps it's because I've been lost inside another story, or the awful worldly events amplifying through the device in my pocket, but I've felt a little unsure about my ability to put anything here worth reading. Is the world not filled with enough writing that will never get read? Are there not already plenty of Substacks banging out articles in a much more timely and capable manner than me/I can/insert correct grammar here because I just can't be arsed to think.

And perhaps that is my answer. I can't be arsed. August is for can't be arsing. Summer is for lying on the grass like we all did as children and staring upwards at an ever-changing sky. August is not the time for article-planning or thinking of anything concrete. That's September's business. Now is the time to drift... whether in this conscious world or the one we visit during afternoon naps (if only my kids still napped) - and so perhaps this is what I want to say to you, Substack...I'm going to take a little while to drift and think and wonder, and then come September, I'll put on my new patent shoes and turn a fresh page. Maybe new posts will appear between now and then, maybe not...I make no promises.

And neither, dear Substackers, should you.

Here's to the final days of summer. It might be our last, for all we know. Let's enjoy it and make it count.

J.x