I'm feeling grim today: sore throat, headache, cold coming. It would be the easiest thing in the world to crawl back under the duvet (and I wouldn't rule that out), but I'm going to stay sitting at my desk trying to write. Not just because I've got a deadline, in fact that hardly figures at all in my thinking, but because I know from past experience that for some weird reason I write better when I'm run down and tired.
Perhaps it's because when your resistance is low you have quicker and more direct access to that vulnerable space where your creativity lies: the unprotected part that still aches with old hurts, where your neuroses flourish unchecked; the twilight place where emotional memory meets imagination and becomes something close to inspiration.
Because of this, I'm going to wrap up warm, and grab a box of tissues, and sit tight, typing away in the hope that something a little more raw and unprocessed might slip out from under the wire...
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