Or my panic at not having written a word of my latest manuscript in a fortnight.
All I ever truly want is to write well the initial idea brought to me by my fantastic muse, only the instant there is promise on the page, I panic. I get in my own way and soon I’m consumed by fear that I don’t have what it takes to see, to the end, the brilliant beginning.
And now it has happened to me with my fourth novel Lancaster. My muse sent me a line of dialogue from which four brilliant chapters formed in no time at all only now, at the beginning of the fifth, I’m paralyzed. I haven’t written a word of Lancaster in well over two weeks and the terror of defeat is starting to affect my equilibrium.
I keep telling myself to simply sit down and write, then if it is rotten, at least I would have made the attempt. It’s that, or go on holiday. Build a hut on some distant shore with my man Friday and chart the tide by day and the stars by night.
There is, of course, that alternative that no writer really wants to admit publicly to needing but secretly accepts they should have on speed dial. The dreaded therapist, or rather my salvation and the one who will get me to understand why I can’t write past my insecurities.
That and why it is that I keep having a dream where I share a taxi with George Clooney riding west as the sun rises behind us only to be distracted by the driver whom I’m convinced is the Dalai Lama... And all this because his name tag asks, ‘Do you know the meaning of life?’
You know, I think all this is due in large part, to the fact that Mercury and not Venus rules my sign.
Thursdays and I are always at odds.
I hope you are all happy and well,