It’s such a grandiose phrase. Proust had his Remembrance of Things Past, Milton his Paradise Lost and Dante his Divine Comedy. I cannot compete. I don’t have the intelligence, the self-belief or the talent. Is that OK? I’ve always been ordinary. I am ordinary. A quiet being. But nonetheless my ego is still strong. I still yearn for that all-encompassing, all embracing creative act. And yet, I don’t for I know the costs involved and a balance is what I am after – inner and outer. Mrs Gaskell struggled between the professional and the domestic. It’s all about rightness and peace. At least it is for me. But what is right? Acceptance is always the key in the end but my ego won’t have it. Fight fight, it shouts, to be heard, to be noticed, to be lauded. But what of the cost? And do I have it in me? I don’t know. There is so much I don’t know. This knowing of lack forever comes to the fore whenever I stick my neck out over the parapet and do sometime creative. And sometimes it overcomes me. I write with so little knowledge, a little heart, much enthusiasm (at least at the start) and a great deal of discipline. My discipline has remained constant. Sometimes I think that is all I am. A little woman of rigour. Is it enough?