Dallying along the dull lanes of no observing and writing, in the last few days I’ve largely drifted (although agreeably) through a haze of creative ennui. If this were a movie it would be shot beautifully on warm 16mm, casting a languid, if wry eye, on the restless contours of creative unproductivity alongside a life thrumming with too many other things.

I’m suddenly besieged by a sense of frustration of not getting to write the way I want to, of not putting in the desired amount of time I should ideally in my writing, reading, thinking. I read essays after essays by contemporaries and wonder why I didn’t write this way, or why I did not think of it first. When in reality the answer is that I did think of it that way, but I hardly have the time to shape the contours of my writing life in that way.