Last year, the essay overwhelmed me. I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t eat. I didn’t think about anything else. I drank, and read, and wrote, and drank, and flailed. Total immersion. It was worth a 72.
I can’t do that this year. I can’t afford to risk my life for 72 per cent. And I’m not drinking, which is scarier yet. Words don’t flow in the same way, ideas seem less bright when they’re not spilling out over the fog of alcohol like Victorian street lamps. So this is what writing feels like. Disjointed, fractured. Like painting the individual pieces of a jigsaw beautifully, without knowing what the final picture is going to look like. Difficult. And this is not how I feel it should be but maybe this is just how it is. What it’s like.
I don’t know.