Not Writing

A few weeks ago I was interviewed by a feature writer for a magazine. She came to my house and I made her tea. It was very nice. About half way through the interview I mentioned that I kept a diary and she asked if she could see it. I took her to my room and opened the wardrobe and showed her the box of notebooks (nearly a hundred of them, I think – and many are A4 sized and hardbacked) that I have been writing since I was thirteen. Also lots and lots of boxes of paper and typed things.

I think I can now pinpoint that as the start of my slide. It wasn’t emailing the novel off. It started a bit earlier than that. Seeing that box.

I can’t tell you how overwhelming the urge is to start undoing. I fancy burning or deleting. A little bit at a time, the way it was written. Just rubbing out slowly.

I am not depressed. I am mainly curious about what would happen. I want to stop all these words. I am thinking, every day, about Sarah Maitland’s silence.

My feelings at the moment are quiet, and a bit contemptuous or disgusted.

Can people forget how to read? Like, see words and not have an image or a message telapathed into their brain?

I want to make spelling errors in public.

I want to delete files at random on my computer and lock myself out of my email account. 

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