Why can’t I write when I want to?
Why do I keep seeing flaws in my story even before I get a word on the page?
Why did I take the brush and destroy a reasonably good painting, just because it annoyed me?
Why do I want to cook loads of things at a time – enough for the next four days, when all I need is just one meal for right now?
Why do I lie in bed when I have loads of things to do, staying there until it is just too late to get even one thing done, then moaning at myself all day?
Why do I not go to bed when I’m tired, and hang on until I
a) can hardly get upstairs or
b)get new life and sit up till 2am watching something stupid on TV?
Why will I not do my homework for meetings etc when I have time instead of waiting until the last minute?
I am a mystery to me!