Yes. Coming of age. This probably sounds like a very odd title for a blog post by a writer. Still it’s something I think about at this moment, and so you’re the victims of my thoughts about it.
The reason for these thoughts is the funeral of an aunt. (Yes, writers have aunts too.) She was a very sweet woman with a heart of gold, always ready to help and care for those she loved. In many ways my aunt reminded me of my mother, who left this earthly plane more than four years ago. And that again set me to these thoughts. My mother passed away before I was writing seriously, and before I published the first little Hilda book. It’s from my mother that I inherited my love of books and reading, and subsequently (I think) the love of writing that came from that. And suddenly it feels as a serious loss that she’s not seen and never will see this ‘success’ (if I may call it so) that I have as a writer.
It’s one of these strange tricks life can play on a person. I know she’d be happy about it, and probably be proud of me as well. Probably? No. She’d be very proud. Because that is how she was.
Bye Mum. I love you.