You’re Not the Boss of Me.
That’s my grandson there, swaggering away from a merciless bout of Catch and Tickle. I mean. Thanks to my cardiac fitness, I did catch him. And, once I had him, I did tickle the bejesus out of him. But he is wily and slippery and has the astonishing strength of a giggling five-year-old, so eventually I couldn’t hold on anymore, and had to surrender to the ground’s hard arms.
It was the most fun I’d had all day, maybe all year. The best exercise. Plus, it provided the healthiest recalibrations for my brain.
In view of this, do you want to hear about the social media pickle I’m in with my books, and what my stats are? How many likes, how many followers? How many paid subscribers?
I don’t.
But I’m a writer, and if I’m going to do anything serious in terms of the outer world and my writing, I will have to — I will absolutely have to — face this issue.
This year I turn seventy. I could achieve millions of paid subscribers and I’d still be three thousand miles from the beloved five-year-old in that picture — the one who’d just left me there to die after my Catch&Tickle defeat. This is not okay. There are important things he needs to learn, things he can only learn from me.
