Mountains

Sunday 6th: something is going wrong with my writing, I can’t just write anymore. It’s a struggle, and I realise I am sitting for hours tapping a few words, and then deleting nearly all of them. Writing more, hating them closing the computer down and going out for a walk, or washing dishes, or making a cup of tea. The other day the kettle boiled, and I didn’t even remember switching it on. But Pavlov would have wept to see me; it whistled and I got out my teabags.
Maybe I’m not meant to be a writer. The mountain of things I have to write are just appalling me, and as I know, I just can’t do them. I switch the computer on and stare at it. I just need to somehow break the barrier.

I had a small success in that I got the editing work I’d been putting off for ages done, that helped, and it felt very satisfying to send the files off. Just the small matter of now of worrying that my email will have let me down again and not sent the damn things. That’s another problem though, so many of them. Even this is hard to write. I can’t even remember properly what I did today. Other than forgetting that I was supposed to meet someone until it was too late and they sent me a very nice text which made me feel even worse. Things must get better.