It’s November, I haven’t written since June. A lot has gone on. I’m on tablets, trying to cope with it all. Fundamentally, nothing has changed. Oh wait, I’ve been to Italy, I started an MA, and I’m still writing and trying keep my head above water. The tablets help.
I think the whole high brow academic lark is a little beyond my feeble powers of endurance. There are times when I would like to be able to step into that Ivoried tower and remain there, surrounded by giant tomes, or maybe like Rapunzel, in my high place looking out over the clouds, but never really letting down my hair. Then, at other times, I think to myself, run, run, run, barefoot, into the forest, run and don’t look back.

In other words I’m torn. I like the idea of being at University, amongst others, treading the slow but definitive path towards greater understanding of things. I’m impatient. I’m on fire. I can’t wait. So now I pick up and read Flannery O’ Connor’s essay entitled ‘Writing Short Stories.’ given by my tutor, Toby, a more elegant and intelligent man you couldn’t hope to meet. I see now where he’s coming from and to where he is leading his brood of pupils, but still I’m running. I want to get my hands dirty. I want to spread words like muck over my knuckles and fingers. I want to dip and slosh about in the messy pond of life. I want to drag up the weeds and the twigs and the branches, I want to give form to the unformed.

And yet reading this measured and cool essay, brings peace, and a measure of tranquility to me. It has essence, it has comfort both spiritual, and psychological. It’s a cool clear drink on a hot neuron mangled day.