…Poor me, eh? Actually, forget about me, it’s the writing that’s been suffering. For two weeks, I haven’t written a word – I’ve been too knackered to think about posting anything on this blog and as for the novel, I’m stuck where I have been for weeks, mid-way between two chapters, wondering how LJ became famous.
At some point last weekend – in between dashing to the Physiotherapist to straighten out my arm (I trapped a muscle, tumbling down a hill on a Nepalese trek last year, avoiding the leeches), make plain food for my ill friend, a fantastic birthday lunch for Mr. F. and the friend and plan some lessons for those blasted inspectors before we went out for some posh nosh later on – a thought popped into my head:
The end of the world is on its way.
It isn’t a new thought. It’s crossed my mind more than once, over the last eight months. Ever since I’ve returned from a mind-blowing, round the world trip to face the drear of another British winter and the same old routine – had I actually been away? Yes, there I still was, after God knows how many years, still stuck up in the attic, bashing away at “The Novel”, teaching as many hours as I could afford to, in between, to support my addiction.
After a particularly rough patch before Christmas, when I was suffering from the extreme cold – don’t ever try living in a Victorian house this far North -and isolation, Mr. F. suggested I try blogging.
“It might help,” he said. “You might feel more connected.”
Was it what I’d been looking for? It wouldn’t solve the heat problem but it might stop me from feeling such a weirdo. From thinking I’m the only bloody person in the world foolish enough to keep on with a novel, several years down the line, no agent or publisher in sight. Might it actually, I wondered, as I took a deep breath – keep me sane?
Hurray, today Tuesday 12th May, I’ve gone and done it. I’ve blogged. Even if it doesn’t work out like I’ve hoped, at least I can say I’ve tried.