It’s time to get the creaking machinery of my writing brain into gear.I’m tackling this in two ways, related but distinct.
Firstly I am at last actively taking the first steps towards finding our whether I have any hope of of being accepted to do a PhD at any of the three universities that seem feasible to me (failing them I’ll take anywhere!)
Just the tiny steps first – one of my kind academic advisers is helping me to hone, not an actual proposal as yet but an introductory note to spring upon an unsuspecting academic, or two, or three as the case may be.
Secondly, while my equally kind readers of fiction collate their notes, I am about to apply myself seriously to the matter of ‘How to upload your own textual content.’ Old dogs, new tricks, that sort of stuff. This one frightens me considerably, but I intend to do it.
All this peripheral stuff you have to do as a writer, independent scholar and self-publisher is really tedious to contemplate. What happened to the glamour and excitement you thought there would be in ‘writing’ as you perceived it in that youthful haze of hopefulness?
It fell away, of course, the moment you first began to type and found that Virginia Woolf was right, that first of all it turns out to be very hard indeed to make words do what you want, that they refuse to be pinned down and then ‘when words are pinned down they fold their wings and die.’