Words dont come easy...

I'm really jealous of people who can write books, who can devote themselves to one subject, focus like a raptor on the details and sieze the ideas like so much hidden prey and make them their own. To be an authority on a subject. To be able to digest and re-present. To actually have the working memory to be able to remember names, dates and conceptions and put them in the right order - and then write fluently with enough factual evidence to impress academics and critics but with enough fluidity to make the passages readable. Having said that, there are plenty of books out there that are reading for the sake of reading, insofar as they appear on reading lists on courses up and down the country (even when there are far more interesting books on the same subjects out there, often more accurate and updated); and plodding through these is like bog snorkeling. But to be able to write ANY sort of book would be a pretty amazing dream for me. I already have enough anxiety writing a few thousand words in an essay. I read and write copiously, give myself a bad neck and a headache, and end up with chunks of typing that start off sensibly enough then end up as either a rant or a barely readable stream of conciousness...