The answer today? Conclusively, positively, hopelessly not. What on earth made me think I could write a novel anyway? A person can write all their lives, but still, in the end, only manage to produce drivel.
Perhaps there's too much on my mind. Between kids (too many), money (not enough), job worries (husband needing to change jobs and the probability that in all likelihood I'm going to have to give up on writing and get one) it's probably not much wonder I'm having doubts about my abilities.
Writing is what I want to do. In fact, it's all I've every wanted to do. But the prospect of leaving the house and finding something which pays is looming ever larger on the horizon. At which point, I'm certain, any creativity I've ever had will disappear, never to be seen again. Which doesn't make me particularly special - it makes me like probably 95% of authors in the world. Of course, there are the famous ones, like J.K. Rowling, Stephen King etc. etc., who are making a mint and gotten world fame to boot. Pretty certain I'll never be in that league :P
Despite all this, there's lots to be thankful for in my life, which my darling husband was trying to convince me over the weekend. We have four wonderful, perfect, pleasant and polite young adults that we created, a roof over our heads, food on the table. We have one another, and have done for nearly thirty years. We've had good times and like most everyone else on the planet, we've had bad times. We're very lucky.
So really, I should brush myself off, consider myself lucky and be thankful for what I do have.