I need to start making some big decisions about the, er, book. It’s reaching a point where I can no longer afford not to know, for instance, how it ends, or how it’s structured. The problem, of course, is that in over-thinking these things, I’ve forced myself into a dark, dark corner. In this corner, nothing makes the least bit of sense, and things I thought I knew about the book (that it’s written in first person, for instance) are shadowed with extreme doubt. Basically, this means that, at a moment when writing this book has never been so important, I can’t actually write it. It may sound painfully inadequate, but…whoops.
Amidst a week of running into a brick wall, falling over, climbing up again, running back into the wall (who was it who said that stupidity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?), I also had a birthday, which has turned out to be the birthday of the plants. Three separate friends, completely independently, entrusted a living thing to me in honour of my advancing age. Apart from the fact that I quite like plants, I’m also trying to see this as a good omen, a metaphor for the creative process that I’m finding so difficult at the moment. It just needs nurturing (and, occasionally, a walk through the sunny garden, as my miniature yew tree apparently requires on a semi-regular basis).