(Continued)
And then, when I have been writing, I’ve been writing about myself in the third person. While I’m doing it, I’m thinking, “This is either a dreadful affectation or highly significant”. Obviously, however, I can’t bring myself to decide about that either.
When a friend (or a colleague, or an acquaintance, or even nobody in particular) approaches me to ask why I’m frantically scribbling away in a notebook, I suddenly become very embarrassed and hastily close it. Invariably, a couple of loose pieces of paper drop out and I have to dash to pick them up before anyone else gets to them.
“What are you doing? Are you writing?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just stuff, you know. Notes. Doodles. Scribbles. Random. Things to remember. Lists. Words. Rubbish, really.”