Was enthused about writing from the time I went to bed, right through the morning school prep, but – no surprises – as I’m making coffee, kid free for a few hours, about to walk down the hallway to the writing room, my enthusiasm morphs into a strange kind of fear based apathy. I’m forced to adopt the ritual or raising one hand in the air, finger raised to the sky, as if I’m a boxer walking through the crowd towards the ring, readying myself for battle, as a way of convincing myself that this is not a waste of time, not a waste of money, that at some stage in this Hobbit like performance, I’ll be able to look back and say, ‘Yep, those long hours and weeks and months and years of walking into the writing room, of writing into the dark, was worth it.’

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