Today I have been mostly sitting in front of this very screen, recalling and writing harrowing tales of an abusive childhood. I have at times brought tears to my own eyes, and wondered how on earth I survived it. I have struggled to remember anything that I could use to add some humour to what will otherwise be a very miserable read.
I am sure that I did laugh occasionally when I was a child, but have sadly concluded, for today at least, that I was a quiet, introverted, somewhat reclusive, and unhappy child.
This book writing is not as easy as I thought. There are some things that are not easy to speak of. At least by someone of my generation. We were not so open as the kids of today are. It is I think, in the nature of us immediate post war kids not to talk of unsavoury things. But to hell with that! I am going to tell it like it was.
As I was driving my extremely handsome son George to the railway station today, it occurred to me that perhaps I should talk to him about the content of my book. Prepare him, as it were for the shocking truths I will be revealing. I think I will do that. When I can find the resource inside me to say things out loud, instead of simply writing them down. Simply? Hah!
It is past midnight. I am all written out for the moment.