Friday felt like a good day. I had a self-satisfied feeling at the end of the day, which I thought was a vague, fuzzy sense of well-being following a day when I had achieved a few ticks on my to-do list. It took me an hour or more of smugness before I recognised it was mostly down to one item on my list: at last, two weeks past my self-imposed deadline, I had posted off a submission. I wasn't sure how good it was; I chided myself for hoping too much...but! I had kept the promise to myself.
And it makes me feel like a writer, even though I am typing this post one-handed with a small, warm baby snoring against my chest. I am a writer, I am a writer....
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