That last post was terrible! So noisy! So cocksure! 
Life’s not really been like that at all.
Writers should be readers too – but reading just reinforces my inadequacies as a writer. Especially when reading a novel as beautiful and mysterious as Nineteen Twenty-One by Adam Thorpe. Or as exquisite as Mothering Sunday by Graham Swift or Month in the Country by JL Carr. Or as vivid as The Somme Stations by Andrew Martin or Field Service by Robert Edric.
What is the point of me writing? The world doesn’t need more average books! The world needs brilliant books. And I can’t write a brilliant book. I lack the intellectual breadth and the emotional depth.
I don’t have the words.
