Thursday, 22 July 2010

The other week I was talking to a man I know at a party. He said something along the lines of – Anthea, writing a diary (i.e. this blog) is hardly the same thing as biting off a big chunk of whoopee and actually producing something properly to be sent out into the world.

Only he didn’t say it like that, cos he’s pretty old school and seems to look at me (at least the way I see it) disapprovingly whenever I blurt out inappropriate things. Which, let’s face it, is quite often, because I’m not always very good at engaging my brain before I open my mouth.

Anyway, his parting shot was that he looked forward to reading my first manuscript or whatever once I got it finished. Which was his way of saying: don’t just talk about it; do it. And ofcourse the old bugger is absolutely right.

So as I lie here nursing my lurgie in this little bedroom of a central Wellington flat reading the back of a drugs packet (and noting that it says I must only avoid alcohol with the night time pills; which by my interpretation means day time drinking is perfectly acceptable), I’m pondering upon this.

And on all the things I’ve written and read so far this week, from work related stuff to things I chose from my own volition. What I enjoyed writing/reading and what was harder to get into than a Scotsman’s wallet – because apart from the motivation of being paid to do it, held no real interest for me at all. Yeah, I’m struggling with some of that, but a girl’s gotta make a living eh.

These are the things that are swirling around my head as I surrender to exhaustion from pushing too hard and not looking after myself enough over the past month or so. My body has finally said ENOUGH! You will rest and you will do it now, I don’t care what’s on the agenda. And so I’m listening and thinking and pondering and sleeping instead.


I would have to interpret that as acceptable to drink alcohol as well. Unless it says that if you drink alcohol you will die right then, it's fine.

Most excellent! I like kindred spirits...