Maybe I’m taking this genius recluse thing too far.

I’ve got a horrible feeling I’m giving myself all kinds of phobias and turmoil by keeping up a massive pretence. I’m supposed to be a writer, someone who can only work if they are witnessing things, getting involved, having adventures and yet I insist on sitting in my room, hunched over my desk and hammering out my work. Something is awry.

This week I’ve been off work with a virus, it not only served to cripple my stomach and creativity but also seemed to exacerbate my feelings of nausea and anxiety when I was out of the house. I put this down to me refusing to ever do anything fun anymore, I’ve sucked a lot of the enjoyment out of my life in order to shut myself in and write. I’m hoping that once I get this redraft out of the way I’ll loosen up a bit, be a bit more careful with myself, go and do things but it’s pretty all consuming. In the daftest way imaginable I am becoming obsessive and a workaholic. The problem is that I know that I can’t stay in my job forever (not that there is anything wrong with it) but because it isn’t what I feel I am supposed to be doing, I should be writing, and now that I’ve realised that, and got it hard I feel I should spend as much time as possible locked away doing just that, but without the balance of a life it’s not worth it. I know that the enjoyment is in getting there but I don’t even think I’m getting that at the moment, I just want it done and sent off, and then published so I can work on something else. I’m getting tired of the story, but rather than just giving up on it like I usually do, of getting bored and turned off I’m going to see it through, and give it to other people, and let them in and show them what it is that I’ve shut myself off from my friends for in the last year.

I want to learn how to be fun again, I want to be free, I just feel a bit trapped.