Things are very strange, at the moment. I’m in the state of mind that doesn’t want to leave the house, or speak to people, or do anything. Only of course, I have to do all of these things. I have responsibilities. People rely on me. And there’s my family. I can’t retreat from the world.
But I am writing. Short stories are pouring from my psyche, from my ink-stained fingers. I’m at the centre of a vortex of words. And although some of these stories are painful to write, at the same time it is most exhilarating to be their prisoner. Never before has the compulsion to write been so strong. Whatever has shifted, in my head, in my heart, and whatever may come next, at least I have these words, these peculiar little stories to show for it.