I have become extraordinarily busy in recent weeks. Honestly, there just isn’t enough hours in the day. I’ve had to rearrange my filing cabinet, sort out my tax receipts, catalogue my new collection of classical music (chronologically, since you ask), and give the office carpet its annual vacuum.
Outside, there has been the year’s final mowing of the lawns (back and front), winter’s logs to be chopped, gravel to be raked, drains to be cleared. Meanwhile, the jobs keep on piling up. Only this morning I realised that the back of the PC hasn’t been dusted in ages, and that I haven’t sifted the no-hopers out of my TBR pile in over a month. And on and on it goes …
You’ll understand, no doubt, what’s going on here. It’s a kind of nesting, in one sense, such was when parents-to-be get into a frenzy of preparation for the new arrival, much of it pointless. It’s also a kind of distraction, of self-diversion. Or self-preservation, perhaps.
Because there’s a book coming. A book that will – as always – need me to be a better writer than I am in order to do it justice. A book that will soak up more time than I can afford to give. A book that will in all probability find me revealed as the arm-chancing hack I know myself to be.