Saturday, 15 July 2017


I feel like a fraud,
when I can't write a word.
I mean, on my one project:
the one I avoid,
and avoid,
and avoid some more -
and, in the end, can barely remember.
Then, I do. I remember, after all.
I remember why I
even started:
my novel,
the one work I am still alive to complete -
the thing I believe in.
No-one can take
that kind of pressure, right?
Not even my characters -
and surely,
it's enough just to get through,
when I spend months dreading appointments
that I absolutely must attend.
Do you know how many things
fall apart,
when it's that hard to make it
to any appointment?
Your body falls apart,
as well as your mind.
This isolation – it's driving me crazy.
Yet, people terrify me.
Real life?
Yeah - because, you know, there is
a world
beyond Twitter and Facebook,
and even You Tube.
I think life is beautiful. Don't get me wrong.
The trees and, when I actually manage
to get out on to the balcony – the breeze. Nature.
I'm in love with life.
I'm just sick of being stuck inside my own head.
I'm sick of being
anxious and depressed,
and of not being able to say
that I'm anxious and depressed -
because I've said it before.
I'm sick of not trusting anyone,
because I can't any more,
because I've been abandoned too many times.
I must anticipate yet another
slammed-in-face door.
I'll pretend to be okay now.
I just need to write some more,
and maybe then,
I won't feel like a fraud,
in the form
of a “writer”, who can't write
her words.