This is the muse. Who has not been quite himself lately. We have been avoiding the issue of his seizures for five years now, but time is conspiring against us. He’s in no serious danger yet, and we are weighing treatment options. But this week has felt like one held-in breath, trying to stretch out these quiet, precious days for as long as possible.
. . .
If I am truly honest with myself, I don’t want to start him on medication because it will mean admitting that he’s ill, that his little twitches are not some nervous tic but something very, very wrong.
I have not written since I got back from England. I had two rush freelance projects back-to-back; I have also felt just tired, tired in my head, tired sitting in front of this screen. Burnt out, perhaps. But this week has driven me back into the arms of the novel, because where else do I go to soothe my heart? All roads lead back to it in the end. It may never be properly published, it may never be any good really . . . but here we are yet again, yet again, the muse sitting beside me and Jaroussky singing and it feels right. As it always does.
Now if I can only keep holding my breath.