Isn't it strange to think of the way that we reflect back on things. I was skyping with a friend last week - she was talking about the years it can take to write and publish a good book. That it's normal for this process to be slow. I think that she was being generous to lump me in as an element of this process, but still, it got me thinking. Often, when I hear about writing (or other creative and unplannable pursuits like comedy or drama), people talk about the times when things weren't working - sum them up in a sentence or two. But they were whole years of a person's life. Those years...it's hard to know what they are when you're in them, and whether they're all you're ever going to get.
Also, I just started to read Bodily Harm by Margaret Atwood. It's so good that almost every page is getting lipped up - both the style and the substance are good. That is so rare, and so wonderful.
This is the cover of the edition I'm reading: