After the birthday doldrums, it was time for the levity and cheer of a winter wedding in Brussels, providing me with a much-needed break from myself (with the help of a little champagne and a lot of INSEAD friends).
It also meant another round of having to explain what I am now doing with my life. To a roomful of people who, like me, sweated tears, blood and euros to earn their MBA and, unlike me, are actually using it. And yet, everyone I meet seems enthralled by the idea of packing it all in and writing the novel. They don't seem to think I'm insane, or selfish, or immature, or naïve, or any of the million other adjectives that spring to my mind. So why is it that I do?
And do they know how hard it is to answer the well-intentioned "how's the book" question? Well, to be honest, after reaching 12,000 words, the book's in a bit of a slump. So much so that I wake up some mornings seriously doubting whether another word will ever get written. It frightens me. And yet I want to write, I love to write, and I love this book. But somehow, it isn't happening right now. I could blame it on the imminent move from my beloved Marais-nest, but really swine flu, climate change, or martians would be equally valid excuses.
Fundamentally, what I'm suffering from is a great big giant bout of self-pity. I assure you, dear friends, I find it almost as exhausting as you do.