Progress nil.

Well, not nil, exactly, just slow.

This lockdown thing is hard for many reasons. Really hard, some days. Almost unbearably so on others. But I persevere, as does everyone else. And one of these reasons, not the most important, I admit, is that it kills creativity. Smothers it. Stamps on it. Takes that tiny bit of motivation you wake up with and strangles the living fucking shit out of it. The monotony, this fish-tank environment. The same rooms, the same chairs, the same walls, the same light, the same noises, the same routines. The same sameness. It’s draining, a big fucking motivational and creative vampire that won’t stop until it’s sucked you dry. Of willpower. And then you try and write or edit anyway, because what else is there to do?

Well, you could try and learn Norwegian, I suppose. Or take up drums again, produce and mix an EP for a mate, read those books you’d been putting off, try and refurbish a pub, take a national energy provider to court (and win), drink a lot, cook a lot, freeze a lot of cooked food a lot, contact some old friends, listen to podcasts, ignore some other old friends, start exercising again, record a couple of albums that no-one will ever get to hear or develop an unhealthy obsession with both Star Wars figures and the I’s crossword (Monday’s can be a bitch)… all of which I’ve done, of course, because it’s all still easier than writing and editing when stuck in this fucking fish-tank.

So I scrape away at the edit of book one, bolstered by the fact that when I occasionally have to crosscheck something against books two or three they seem like they don’t actually need that much work. Probably. And so some days it actually does goes well. But most days it does not. But still I try, because I’m a fucking masochist, apparently. I really just want it all to end, truth be told. And at this point I don’t really care how.

Jeg er en bjorn. I wish. It would be so much simpler.

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