Bizarre things go on inside my head. I mean, I'm a writer, so that's already cause for alarm, neuro wise. And I have ADHD. Right now I'm laughing along to a Hannah Gadsby and typing this and learning about 'back matter' in ebooks and also something called Amazon Affiliates.
And reformatting 1916-ish so I can update it.
And I coulnd't find the right word file with the latest version of 1916-ish, could I? No, because I'm disorganised to the point of needing an intervention. Which meant finding a file that was almost good enough but somehow all the italics were gone and I have to go in and put set words into italics.
And then I started reading the story again.
Because . . . it's a really cool book and I really do love it.
In 1916-ish, the main character, Ingrid, also has ADHD.
I didn't know she had ADHD when I started writing her story. It was something that didn't make itself clear until several drafts in. And it was something that made so much sense to Ingrid and how she saw the world.
And . . .
Around this time, my son (who'd already been diagnosed a few years earlier with Autism) was properly diagnosed with ADHD.
"But hang on," I said to the paediatrician, "Everything that qualifies him with ADHD is the same as all the stuff I did at his age."
She looked at me and nodded, with a reassuring, "Mmm-hmm".
So here we are.
Back to reformatting and learning stuff. Reading 1916-ish again has reminded me how much I learned about myself writing that. You can't tell me authors don't put themselves into their books. Sure, they're not an autobiography, but there's always a little of ourselves in them.
I'm pretty sure I screwed this up, because ADHD. But I may have also done it the right way. Who knows? Life is an adventure.