Perhaps it’s just the gloom of an English winter. More likely it’s just me. I just feel stale.

Worked flat-out last week to get the essay for Time & Mind done – which I did, yesterday, after overshooting the deadline by the best part of another week, but fortunately didn’t matter. So now it’s back to the still-not-yet-finished Bridging the Silos. Which is still inching towards completion, I guess – another half-chapter done last week – but it’s already the best part of a year later than I’d intended, and there’s still a full three chapters to go. Not good.

Reality is I’m stale. I ain’t going anywhere; I rarely go out; I don’t have any kind of social connections, people I regularly meet; I barely know anyone in this town where I’m staying, and have now stayed for more than two years. In short, I don’t have anything resembling a ‘life’: I just sit and write. Or, more usually, avoid writing. Also not good – especially as I have a queue of something like five books currently on the go, and more ideas and themes popping up almost by the day, but none of which are actually going anywhere.

Dunno what to do about this. My last attempt at a holiday could only be described as a fiasco: certainly left me more stressed, and a lot more out of pocket, than when I started.

And now – oh joys – it’s even snowing. Dull grey, dull yellow: thin spitting stuff, enough to be thoroughly unpleasant, without any aesthetic quality at all. Humph.


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