Whether it was the discovery that writing is less to do with words and all to do with business, or the other betrayal that caused the decline, I can not tell.
It felt, rather than fight back, fight the onslaught, I should retreat from life itself, all fire gone from the belly with no wish for anything even vaguely creative and simply put my head down and do my duty.
Surely that is the time to write? When life is oppressive or appears so? Mostly it is a matter of perspective, I have found over years. The solution is to just say no to the temptation to give up, in the words of a famous wife. No, I do not accept this thought, this apparent oppression, I refuse to kowtow.
Then, after a shower, cascading with soft, wobbling flesh, perfumed with lotion, as I fold the crisp white cotton of my pyjamas I realise something else.
The ease with which they fold, their white formal lines fitting neatly under the pillow make it seem possible to cut away the dross, clear the mind of all that and have my life in formal, stiff folds.
I am reinventing myself and will go my own sweet way.
I will be a crisp person who folds neatly, who fits her own skin perfectly, so no one would dream of betrayal or dismissal.
Now I will write only for pleasure, only to see the words on the page, the words I hear in my head and commune with.