Friday, June 18, 2010


It is ironic that I should be reading The Infernal Life of Branwell Bronte now - the story of the man related to women who became famous, while he lurked in the shadows, an unacknowledged genius, an unrecognised giant, or not.

This book even doubts his one (personal) claim to fame, his highly wrought affair with "Mrs Robinson" that he blamed for his undoing rather than his dissipation, his lack of application, his inability to stick at anything.

That last is where I most resonate. Inability to stick at anything, the tendency which has been growing on me, I hold on to things so lightly and let them go, because nothing is worth holding on.

And no one.

I read this when I'm wondering whether to turf my current project, return all those reports that have been littering the floor of my room for months and which have oppressed my spirits to no common degree.

I've been advised by various friends to suck it up and keep on keeping on. There is a track record here I have to break.

But every word wrung from me is sheer misery.

And today, the other side went silent. I'll give it till Monday and then send an email to ask what's what.

I don't feel like doing another lick of work. Especially this is just going to go on the scrapheap of projects I've abandoned.

I'd like to finish something for once. But anger and hatred swell in me now and I don't know what to do about it or how to curb it.

I think I'll paint another picture.


Nessa said...

Perhaps you can't finish these things because you aren't yet doing what you are meant to do and are instead trying to force yourself into the wrong hole.

Jenn said...

Heh. That's what I thought. In which case I had better find what hole I fit in, quick smart.