I have finally returned to my dissertation piece after weeks and weeks of avoidance, and discovered that I have entirely forgotten what I was writing about.
I have reached a moment where the heroine is just on the cusp of her exciting adventures, ie, nothing has happened to her of any interest at all yet, apart from the misfortunate demise of her entire family, and I am longing to know what happens next but there is just a blank page.
Nothing could be more irritating.
I am going to have to work it out for myself.
I have, as I might have mentioned, set aside January for this project, and indeed, I will be vanishing off to Cambridge for tutor consultations and intensive learning time at the end of the month. The problem is that it is now January, and now I have got to think of something to write.
I had thought of lots of things to write, but can’t remember what any of them were. It has been a whole Christmas from Porlock, depriving the world of my works of genius.
I am disgruntled.
I am only writing to you because it is a jolly lot less hassle than trying to work out what happens to her next. I am Procrastinating.
I have Procrastinated for most of the day. I have hoovered the bedrooms and put the dinner in the slow cooker. This last is a nice idea but means that from about four o’clock onwards the very nice smells of baking lamb which have been drifting up the stairs have driven me to a state of hungry incompetence. I have no self-control so now I have eaten several chocolate decorations from the Christmas tree, clearly the ones which were too thoroughly anchored to have been snaffled by the dogs, and now I am not hungry at all. Actually I am feeling mildly sick.
Of course Procrastination is not an entirely bad thing, and enables me to do all sorts of things that I would otherwise ignore. I have signed and returned my tax forms, swept the gnawed remains of goose bones out of the dog basket, and stuck all of Oliver’s last-term awards for Gordonstonian excellence on the walls. There are several of these. Actually most of the wall is full. Fortunately none of the other children were quite as industrious otherwise I would have had to build an extension.
Even more fortunately, he will have finished soon.
We had thought we would make an early start to the day, and having climbed virtuously into bed around midnight, set an alarm for half past eight. This seemed to be a marvellous idea, combining an early start with a thorough night’s rest, we could get a whole day of labour in before it went dark.
We slept through it. Well, we didn’t exactly sleep through it. It woke us up. We turned it off. Then we slept for another hour before leaping guiltily out of bed and tripping over the dogs. We weren’t properly awake even then, and it took most of a steaming jug of coffee before we managed to work out a plan for the day.
I planned to write my dissertation. Look where that got me.
I don’t much feel like doing anything at this time of year anyway. My whole soul is longing to hibernate, it feels the most shocking outrage to have so many things demanding my attention. The Lake District seems covered by an endless grey twilight, the tourists have departed, and the world has faded to silence.
With any luck the weather will improve a bit tomorrow and I will be able to go out and walk and think. I think that might be the key to writing a magnum opus.
Probably you have to give it some thought.
