Another birthday, the last one of my fifties, 59 years old and into my sixtieth year on the planet.

I remember my dad telling me that time speeds up as you get older. He was right. A year now is only a sixtieth of my life. Back when I was ten it was a tenth. There’s inflation for you.

As usual these past few years, it’s provoked a period of navel gazing about the writing. These recent years have been the best of my writing career, by quite some margin, with novels and collections sold to good markets, books appearing in lovely illustrated hardcover editions, and stories sold to some of the top publishers. I’m now into my tenth year of supporting us as a full time writer.

If you’d told me back when I started I could have this, I’d have bitten your arm off for the chance.

And yet… money’s too tight to mention. If I’d stayed working in IT back in the UK, I’d be a damned sight better off by now, and have a much better pension coming up next year for a start. But that would have meant trading in the past ten years spent doing what I want to do, writing full time, here on the coast of Newfoundland, and losing most of those aforesaid nice publications in the process.

Swings and roundabouts, but in the end, I’m glad we made the leap. I’ve made a lot of good online friends in this business over these recent years, and although we haven’t met in the flesh, it doesn’t make that friendship any less real.

I used to think I’d slow down in the writing as I got nearer 60, but I’ve got contracts in hand for a few more novels to take me over that hump, ideas for many more, and some secret stuff in the pipeline that looks to keep me too busy to worry about getting old.

So thanks to everybody that puts up with me, and onward, into the wide blue yonder.