Scary

I have just done a scary thing.
It wasn’t going for a walk with Catherine in the snow in the dark that was quite delightful actually. It was fun to watch the snow flakes chasing each other around the lamposts adn to slide along in your wellies and boots.
No the scary thing was booking some time away from the parish to write. Next week I am going to spend Sunday to Friday in York working on my publication. It’s a big leap of faith for me in so many ways… almost as much at the trips abroad.
The thing is that after this amazing year I am a sponge full of stuff that I hope could help others and which if I don’t get it out of my system I will always regret. So I am going to Bar Convent and I hope I can work.
But I don't know if I can become a writing machine.
Every walk of a thousand miles…
Every work of a thousand pages (?) begins with just one word…

Any how one things for certain it will answer once and for all the nagging question in many people's minds adn in mine lately:
Could I,
should I
write?