I used to bash out a blog daily.
I used to ride a horse whenever and wherever I could.
I used to hop on a plane and fly more or less anywhere given half a chance.
I used to do these things.
Now, not so much.
Fear crept into each of these activities, taking up residence in my gut brain, chucking out whatever chemical cocktail it is that makes your palms damp, your heart flip out, your intestines clench and gurn.
This year, on the shortest of hops to Jersey, I cried. I cried there and on the way back with only 45 minutes in the air. I flew to Bordeaux too, crying there and back. I put my sunglasses on and tried not to sob too much.
Perhaps that might work with this lonely, anxious-making typing words shizzle.
You see, as things stand, if I write something and then step away from it for too long, I can’t bear to read it again. I call it the dead squirrel syndrome: you know you killed it, but you can’t bear to look at it again. Step away from the corpse for too long and it’s almost impossible to return. Either you can’t locate it, or the stench of rotten flesh makes it impossible to concentrate on anything, let alone resurrecting the kill.
Or worse, you simply can’t be certain now that it’s even your dead squirrel at all.
Editing the dead squirrel. Don’t even try.