What a difference such a seemingly small thing makes. I had been ploughing through that mire of despond, which is familiar territory for many writers, namely I felt a total failure, thought my work was rubbish and I might as well give up and devote myself to my garden.
I had, however, resolved to have some new cards done; my old ones were way out of date and there had been one or two occasions when it would have been good to have a card to give out.
The design had taken me a very long time. Years, in fact, and in this case I’m not exaggerating. I wanted a card which represented me and what I did, but I couldn’t find the right image. A couple of weeks ago it occurred to me that if I am a writer then a picture of books would work, and if I…
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