Nearly done

You know that feeling, when you're near the edge of a cliff, or walking on a high bridge, or even at the side of a busy road. You know the voice?

The voice saying: jump.

Every other fibre of your being and your brain and your body knows not to do so. But there's a compulsion, somewhere, deep down, that shouts to be acknowledged.

You never do, of course. But there is a what if... somewhere, and it rises and wiggles and tickles until a car beeps or a seagull cawks or you feel a rivet under your steps. Then things snap back into place and self-searching is replaced by talking or thinking of where you're going or what's for tea instead.

This is how I feel today about work.

I've written 85k in about six or seven weeks for a book project and it's all reasonably serviceable stuff. Maybe even good. I think it's not too bad.

And I think I'm going to be able to finish the writing phase today. It's definitely only about four hours' more of work. I have the research and the ideas and the rhythm all down. Just really allowing all that to percolate and make itself ready.

And I've got this voice saying: Why not just delete those emails to myself with the drafts; delete all the bookmarks; delete all the research; throw out all the albums and the music; set Word to 'replace all' with the text of a Snoopy book?

God it's a rascal feeling that. You know the one. I think I've proved I can do it so why bother actually finishing? Keep it pure as an idea. Stop it now, whilst it's still just me and a computer and songs and interviews and research. You know?

I am so seduced by the nihilism of this that I have allowed it to flourish in my head, even whilst every fibre of my being, and all that, knows not to do it.

I'm going for a cup of tea. Then I'm going to finish my book.

But first, I'm going to pretend that I'm going to delete it from existence. What japes.