A writer's life for me

I am sitting across the dinner table from my sister-in-law when I realise something: I don’t want to be with my husband anymore. The thought comes together innocently enough. It’s one of those background thoughts that play over someone’s conversation. You’re not fully committed to what the other person is saying, and so you have a few tabs open in the background: Bugger, I forgot washing up liquid; Did I send that email, or just draft it – must check; Can’t remember whether the car is booked in for the morning or the afternoon, better check that too; I think I want to leave my husband; Is this chicken cooked? * The title of this post is slightly disingenuous; let me just be up front and admit that to you right now. I didn’t do a bad thing, at all. In fact, I did what I think is probably a very smart thing. If you follow my PhD posts then you know I am about to start what will be the fourth – and, I hope, final – edit on my PhD novel. At this stage it is very much a labour

Reader, I have been struggling. I am making literary allusions there – I hope you’ve noticed – although realistically over recent months I have been less Jane Eyre and more mad woman in the attic.  Don't worry -- I don't really mean that  kind of mad. Although, what I have recently done to my research paper is not entirely dissimilar to what Kathy Bates did to that chap's foot in Misery . The last time I updated this I was at the beginning of my research paper; now, I’m at the end. The end of my first draft, that is – let’s not make it sound more important than it actually is – but it’s a first draft that I didn’t have in February. And it’s a first draft that I have polished, chopped ten pages from in line edits alone, and now booted off to my supervisor so he can tell me all the things I’ve done wrong. I sound resentful towards him; I’m not. The man is an editorial God and I am grateful for his input. But I am also desperate for the day when he tells me