After weeks and months of research and disinclination, mostly the latter, and displacement activities varying from tracking down the source of the snail trails that find their way across our carpet during the night [Ugh!] to reorganising my CDs for the umpteenth time, this Monday morning just gone, armed with a small but strong cup of coffee, and in the shadow of 6.30am, I finally settled at my desk to begin a new book. The new book. And way not before time, I hear you mutter.
It took something short of two hours before I was even close to satisfied with the first six or seven lines; satisfied enough to move on. Another hour before I had a paragraph.
Like falling off a bike, isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?
By the end of the working day [that's the morning in anyone else's terms] I’d clocked 500 or so words. A little over 500 the second day, too. And this morning, a breakthrough: 720 reads the little red annotation in my diary. Right alongside Buy beetroot and celeriac. Broccoli. Onions. So, fine, just another twelve months or so to go …