i was driving home late last night, listening to an interview on radio national with Alain de Botton. He was talking about the process of writing – how after all these years he still panics while he’s writing, and gets overly anxious. he thinks it’s all crap and that he’s had his last good sentence ever… but now he knows that’s part of the process, so the panic doesn’t panic him.
i so get that.
I’ve been waiting for easter to get under my skin, for the moment of inspiration to come. I’ve faffed around over the last few days, wasting time on stupid things, and skirting the edges of what i really, really need to do. i’ve dabbled with ideas and thrown them out for no good reason. i’ve had no sense of imperative, and any interest has been manufactured from the memory that i’ve liked doing this before, not from any faith that i’ll like doing it this time. and just today the panic has started to rise, maybe i really have had my last good sentence ever, and i feel a sense of relief: i know where i am now. this has started to matter. i can do it from here.