Aspiring novel writers please do not be disheartened.
There is a dichotomy: The older people get the more they could, if so inclined, write a good story. However, the older people get the less they read novels.
I haven’t made a study of it but hear it again and again (even, increasingly so, from myself) that the older you get the fewer novels you read. There is a good reason for it.
Leaving novels aside. Books of whatever genre:
It saddens me. Not least since a big love of my life is print. I am sick of it. Sick of it. Almost physically so. Have started weeding – big time. Next time I move house I want to move lightly. And, more importantly, I don’t want to leave my son with acres of print to wade through once I am out of the picture.
There is always an upside to a downside. I have friends on those shelves. My god. True friends who contributed to what I am today. Chiselled me decades ago and over time. And what do you know: By weeding those shelves, getting rid of the inconsequential, friends stand acknowledged, stand out and give comfort. It doesn’t come easy to me to be autobiographical so I won’t give you names. Otherwise I might as well give you my DNA and/or an imprint of my palms or bequeath my brain to the Josephinum in Vienna/Austria. Let’s just say: My heart sings.