At least, that’s where it starts.  This e-book mania entails so much time in editing , formatting, designing covers, etc., that all the old joy – the transcendent love of writing for its sake is gone!  And I have to ask myself, honestly;  was I happier before I even tried to publish?

This is not an easy thought to encompass:  Everyone I suppose craves some form of recognition; some validation for their life.  They were here for a purpose, they made things change.  But I begin to see things differently.  If, as I believe, all life is just some sort of glorious accident, then what is the point of change?  We leave pretty much where we arrived, and we are noticed no more or less at the end than the beginning.  So is my loft life – writing, writing, writing – a futile exercise inasmuch as it concerns no-one else?  I do it for myself, after all.  It inhibits thought in other, less welcome directions.  I do not have to subject myself to that ruthless self-examination that comes in the night.

With new books in my head I should be writing them, not pfaffing around with nannyish editing systems which stultify any form of creative urge.  Just because I can write – and write well – does not mean I should be read.   I should banish any thoughts of material success through my writing completely.   Let the world go without my invaluable wisdom, since it does not appear to want it!.