History in the making

I have wanted to write something publishable for as long as I can remember. As a child I would type up match reports for my father to read. He would joke that they were more accurate than anything he would read on the back pages the next day. As a teenager I would pen angst-filled, dark, brooding poems that reflcted my tormented, hormonal soul!

It could be argued that some of my professional work was published - dull, dry reports for local government (I can tell you nothing exciting will ever be found in a governmental paper) and training manuals for systems. However, these are not works that I would want to be forever remembered for; though if I say so myself they were good. I have a plethora of journals, scribbled notes and random jottings upon which to base my future works, and now a year free from the mundane and tedium that is entailed by work.

The boys, two rather endearing dogs going by the names of Charlie and Jake, and I are heading to Andalucia for a year of, one hopes, productive writing. I have started to pack up my belongings for storage; this is an onerous task but one which presents the opportunity for the rationalisation of belongings. I have piles and piles of odds and sods to take to car boot sales (in a vain attempt to bolster my somewhat meagre budget) and hundreds of books, a large number of which I am putting up for sale. That has been the most painful part to date - apart from the hit on my wallet for necessary vet fees for passports, sun-fly collars etc - the knowledge that I need to limit my stock of reading material.

I adore books. I covet them. Don't let me have membership of a library, I have trouble taking the books back. I just want to own books; but realism has struck and the fiction that I am never going to read again needs to go to new homes. I have a funny feeling that the charity shops are going to benefit rather well.