Really not in a good head space for writing today. Slept like crap after losing an hour of slumber to the Bronte biography, which is really gripping now that Charlotte’s sisters have died and she’s been exposed as the author of Jane Eyre. I keep thinking of her isolated in that house with her reclusive father where her mother, brother and sisters died, occasionally developing a cough herself, wondering if it might be her turn to die from ‘consumption’, while writing another book, writing to her editors and other famous writers of the time, and balancing all that against the cruelty in her life so that she somehow feels the drive to continue working, creating, dedicating herself to her craft. It’s romantic, haunting, horrifying. And the alarm has sounded. Five minutes over. Time to write inside my modern house where all my family are currently alive and well.