Today is my twenty-eighth birthday which means that I have officially survived the deadly twenty-sevens.
It's hard to fathom that Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison were never as old as I am now. Kurt Cobain, yeah, I can see that. Some of my favourites from the 27 Club: Robert Johnson, D Boon (The Minutemen), Dave Alexander (Stooges).
Of course, not being a musician, my chances of making it to 28 were much improved. Is there a magical number for writers? I've certainly lived longer than Keats (25) and have a couple more years left until I surpass Sylvia Plath and Emily Bronte (30).
According to this article from The Guardian, if I leave the poetry alone and focus on the fiction the law of averages suggets I'd live four years longer (if I was to be an average novelist, though who aspires to that?).
I think 28 must be the magical age where birthdays become prompts for morbid thoughts rather than unmitigated celebration. Oh joy.