So I’ve been ill.
I’m not ill very often, but this is an accumulation of things finally catching up to me. I was due. I’m probably due for another few days at least. Been a long time coming.
Life can wear you down.
I’m not quite sure how it’s possible that my life is so simple and even underwhelming in the abstract, in concept, yet so incredibly complex and overwhelming on the ground, in terms of the actual day-to-day experience.
— § —
I feel the novel bug rising inside me again.
A couple times before I’ve started writing a novel and made very good progress, arrived at hundreds of pages and a cracking good story that others have said they were eagerly waiting to read the end of—only to lose momentum and not return until I can’t even remember what’s in the pages.
Not sure why.
Somehow it links to a larger, common thread through everything. I’ve been so successful in so many ways, and yet—yet I can’t shake the feeling that there are a million and one things I ought to have done, could have done, yet simply didn’t for some inexplicable reason.
I think it has something to do with actually being subconsciously averse to certain kinds of success. But I’m not sure exactly what the details are or why that might be—it’s just an intuition that I have.
— § —
It’s late and it’s been a few nights since I really slept well—I’m ill in that way that leaves a person with a hacking cough and a huge headache at 2:00 am, and then at 3:00 am, and then at 4:00 am without any particular resolution.
Maybe tonight I’ll get a good night’s sleep.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll start again on a new novel.