I’ve almost finished writing my latest novella The Guardian, traditional science fiction featuring an erotic love affair. By the time you read this, I will once again be busy with the last chapter. How it ends all depends on… Oh no, wait a minute. You almost had me then. I’m not telling you. You will just have to read it for yourselves to find out.
Like all of my previous books, when I reach this stage, if for no other reason than the state of my health, at long last I will be able to breath a huge sigh of relief. Why? Because unlike a lot of people, I always work at a level of intensity well beyond what is considered normal. I make no excuses. I know no other way to work. By the time the book has been published, one thing is certain. I won’t want to subject myself to my tough work regime for at least another year.
A couple of days ago the tell tale signs of exhaustion manifested themselves in their usual manner. On Monday morning I woke up with the unmistakeable taste of acid in my mouth. No not that kind of acid. I’m talking about stomach acid. Less than an hour later I was in the bathroom throwing up. Just quietly, I still feel fragile. But I must be on the mend. Today is the first time I’ve been able to keep anything down since Monday. Until last night all I could manage was an occasional sip of water and some dry bread. Consuming anything else was completely out of the question given the state of my stomach.
Why do I put myself through this each time I write a new story? Don’t ask me. Maybe there is a grain of truth in what some say about an artist suffering for his art after all. If that’s the case, is it any wonder I now restrict myself to one work each year? I need the ten to twelve month gap between each one simply to recuperate.