I have been busy writing reflective columns for Cotswold Life, controversial opinion pieces for Parentdish, Facebook status updates for all manner of companies ('people get paid for that?' - that's what you're thinking, isn't it?), and programme copy for my literary festival.
But top of the writing list over the last few weeks has been my novel, which even after a year I still love with a passion. I am nearing the end of edits on my second draft; a draft which has seen 10,000 words ruthlessly slashed in favour of 30,000 new ones. It's better, tighter, more exciting and I am tentatively hoping that 2013 will be The Year Of The Book.
My deadline is the end of January, and in preparation for a last-minute panic I have for some time had a reservation at a writing retreat in the depths of Devon, where I planned to slave over a hot manuscript, meeting my deadline at the eleventh hour, in a dramatic and writerly way. It looks, however, as though I will finish my edits early, and so this weekend I will send the book off to London (uttered with the reverence only a Country Girl can muster) and spend my three-day retreat curled up by the fire with a brand new notebook, plotting book two.
And perhaps I'll write a blog post or two.