Writers tend to be irksome creatures, like dogs turning a thousand circles before settling, like cats wanting to be let out, then in, then out, then in … but mostly like hamsters in wheels, whirling words in endless configurations and getting nowhere.
Of course, this isn’t how writers see themselves; noble eagles soaring over imaginary landscapes, solitary tigers in their magnificent isolation, nightingales punctuating the darkness with plangent beauty.
Writers. You can’t trust them. Especially this one.
My blog is not called Writing Neuroses for nothing.