Imaginary friends

It’s odd, this blogging business. I feel as though I’m having a conversation with people, much as I do when I write my books, except that the people aren’t really there. Imaginary friends. (I did have a real imaginary friend when I was little; his name was Jimmy Losey, and he and I were inseparable. Eventually my parents got so fed up with Jimmy that they engineered his suicide. He leapt into a lake on a walk one day, and never reappeared. I accepted this with surprising equanimity.)

I should be used by now to communicating with the invisible, but I still find it a bit disconcerting, as though I might discover that I’ve been quietly ranting to myself all these years, and everyone’s been too polite to tell me. There’s a lot of insecurity involved in being a writer; the greatest is assuming you have something worthwhile to say, when it’s patently clear to everyone else you’re talking nonsense.

That said, there’s nothing I’d rather do. Today’s task: to read through the first 7 chapters of the illegitimacy book so that I can begin to see the wood as well as the trees. This means a strenuous day on the settee, weighed down by a cat on the chest and a dog on the feet.

I love my job!

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