Dashboard dwindles on Red Room site. Who am I kidding. I hesitate but I sign up for a novel writing course deep in the wilds of Kerry. This time next month I will venture off in my little red beetle bug and cross the Shannon River from Clare to Kerry and drive along the narrow country roads in search of my destiny. A workshop. A gathering of fellow writers in a writing center for the weekend. For one hundred and twenty euro my quest will be closer. I have this novel in my head. It swims around like a goldfish in a bowl, in a limited space. The characters clash and swim into eachother now and then, only to part and paddle into unknown waters and drown for long periods and then resume, rise for air in their limited space. I realise I have to escape the goldfish bowl, the goldfish bowl of my life, the kitchen and the wonderful dinners, the washing machine on its endless ceaseless drone, the pile of socks on the countertop, the telephone ringing and the constant text messages from my boys requiring a pick up or a drop off somewhere. No, this time it is for me. I relish the thought. A fresh slice of paper like newly baked bread, two pens, felt, an overnight bag and my mind, full of the words that never have time to come out, full of the ideas and the dreams and the characters that hover and haunt me day to day, that cannot find a place to settle and rest. This is my one chance. I hope it won't disappoint. I hope I won't disappoint it. I shall see.