I acknowledge that the agitation which has afflicted me the past two years is entirely my fault, the result of revisiting an old novel of mine in the midst of lockdown, when there seemed to be little else to do.
I worked hard on it in my spare time that year, as our summer travel plans were aborted, polishing and readying it for print. For a while, I had found the confidence to give it new life, but I have now not touched it since spring.
In truth, it has stirred too much inside of me, and now I must confess that it has made me ill, unsettling my heart. Unfortunately, that is the reality: this hobby of mine is more often than not simply bad for me, killing my spirit, triggering inner anxieties.
It’s a shame that I’ve reached this juncture. I invested so much in that novel, but now I can barely face it. Last year, I found it easy to sit down to edit for hours. No longer. All motivation has completely left me. It’s another of those books that will end up in the bin. What a shame.
Last modified: 11 December 2022
