The Strange Compulsion

I have accomplished little this week except last night Hodmandod Senior and I went to Jan's very happy birthday party and on Monday I met a friend in Liverpool and had lunch. We talked about how much sacrifice there is in writing a book - not just the research but the way we hide ourselves away and work obsessively. All there seems to be is the book. Friends and relatives are neglected. The house goes uncleaned. We are distracted, elsewhere, in the land of the novel and reluctant to come out.

'Is it worth it?' my friend asked, but the question went unanswered.

The answer is 'no', of course - but we both know we'll do it again anyway.