I do a lot of writing, quite apart from writing novels. Always have.

I’ve written and continue to write reports and programmes and letters and summaries and recommendations and charts and social stories and things I’ve forgotten for the day job.

I’ve written sketches for youth groups and articles for local papers and full-scale plays for community productions.

Whenever any group that I’m even vaguely part of needs something written, not unnaturally I suppose, I turn out to be the one with MUG written between my eyes. Press release on the choir’s recent success – you don’t mind do you, Alis? Brief outline for the management of what the team’s planning next – wouldn’t be too much trouble for you, would it? I’ve got this really tricky letter I need to send to the local Education Authority – I don’t suppose you could just…?

You get the picture.

But, apart from the plays and sketches, which were huge fun, none of the other writing gives me pleasure. I can do it with reasonable facility and it helps, so I do it. But it’s not fun. It’s work.

And that’s how I’ve begun to feel about keeping a blog. That it’s not fun. That I’m having to work too hard at it.

So, because I can, I’m going to stop.

Not necessarily stop altogether. I’m going to try and go back to what I wanted to do at the beginning. Just record the journey to publication. Not sure what happened but it turned into something else.

I didn’t like the something else.

So, tomorrow, I’m just going to update you with where I’ve got to and where I’m going next with the publication of None So Blind.

And that will be fun.