I am starting to despair of ever getting any writing done. I have three novels and a history floating in a puddle of inaction, slowly dissolving into unmemorable fragments.
Part of the problem is the lack of proper chemicals to subdue my distractibility long enough for me to get some words on paper. Another part is the need to travel to other libraries and towns to gather the research materials for the history. It's not that I don't like to travel, but the sense that by doing so I am removing what little chance my wife has of getting out of the house.
I know that her depression and agoraphobia are not my doing but I seem to have persuaded myself that any action on my part underscores and emphasizes her inaction. So I don't do anything.
I have psychologically painted myself into a corner where I sit and rust while waiting for her to decide to get better.
I have written several blog entries today, and will visit a sick relative this afternoon. Perhaps I'll sort some books and try to decide whether giving her the latest Leonard Cohen album for Valentine's Day is a good idea.
