Like the empty pages with the month typed in unassuming font across the middle, I have not written a damn thing but renovation and shopping lists in months. Months. When was the last time this happened? How long will it go on? Have a ceased being a writer? Was that it?
I am unfortunately empty of chutzpah; devoid of gumption; my balls have shriveled up and crawled away disgusted in myself.
I can't seem to get back into it.
Admittedly, and without wanting to sound like I'm justifying my ass off, it has been a particularly full-on couple few months. We've moved - twice, renovated a cluster of sheds into a livable four bedroom home, driven a horse truck to Christchurch and purged our old place of our stuff, moved G into his Auckland apartment, had the flu, school holidays, ski season, and a general lack of energy to create anything beyond a cosy home out of a diseased pigs ear.
So now we are moved in, mostly unpacked, and I have my computer and office all set up will the block finally be over?
I don't know. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. I'm fearful. I'm still reeling over the loss of all that editing of The Nereid. I know I should just open the file and read it. Start. But I can't. Every time I think of doing it I freeze up. I get distracted. I offer myself another flimsy excuse not to open the file. I'm terrified of it. What if that was it? What if I can't face the rewrite? What if everything I try is shit?
I'm a coward. And a procrastinator. And I feel in the losing of that work I have somehow lost myself. How self-indulgent and paltry of me.
But as much as I know I need to get over myself, I can't. Ridiculous.
