Many times of late memory of past events, some subtle, some not, flit through my thoughts. Time speeds ever onward and through some strange distortion, the more years which lay behind me, the faster my progress through time seems.
When I was writing The Lonely Hours, I was stunned to realize that some of the events I was recalling happened over thirty years ago. Just days ago we were talking about something which happened in the 80's. That is practically ancient history now.
I still remember reading a book which had a year, as a title. Some of you will recognize the book when I say it was written by George Orwell. It seemed totally unreal as the year which was the title of the book was so extremely far in the future. At sixteen, I never dreamed that 1984 would ever actually arrive.
For those of you who look back at the years, never forget that those who look forward have yet to experience the dilation of time which age brings. To them, the years are still long, and the press of time has not yet gripped its teeth into their soul.
Think back to childhood. Can you remember how long a year seemed? I sit here, on the first of November and with sudden shock I ask "where has the year gone?"
For many years, I have written technical documents and books, principally the manuals of the software I have designed. Visions of stories flit through my mind, drifting randomly only to be pushed back with the idea of someday. Someday I would take the time to sit down and tell some of the stories I which flood my mind.
For me, someday is now. Always before I feared that others would not appreciate the product of my pin. Now in my later years I finally realize that writers do not write for anyone other than themselves. If I craft a compelling tale, people will want to read it. If I can put on paper, what I see in my mind's eye, that is what is essential.
I hope you need less time to find your way than the long road I trod. As for me, today, after sixty years the yellow brick road lies clearly ahead.
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