Tuesday 24 May

Forgive me, Diary, for I have not written for many weeks now. If you could have the good grace to grant me some absolution or whatever it is that you diary types are empowered to bestow, I would be much obliged     forever in your debt     less inclined to throw you in the bin and, therefore, more likely to write to you again soon. A satisfactory win-win for both of us, I suggest.

You should know that I haven’t been avoiding you. At least not on purpose. It’s just that I seem to be in a bit of a funk. Actually, if I’m frank (and let’s face it, that’s what diaries are for, right?), I am most definitely in a bit of a funk. Not an all-encompassing ‘can’t seem to shake it off’ sort of funk, just the ‘what the hell has happened to all of my creative energy’ kind of thing.

I read back through a few of my drafts today to see if that could help to rekindle my flagging spirit. And while I can say that it buoyed me to see that I was indeed capable of writing something not too shabby, it also served to reinforce my fear that I might never find the write right words again. It probably hasn’t helped that I’ve just finished reading Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day. What an exquisitely written and profound tale of love! Love that Stevens didn’t recognise, of course – or perhaps wouldn’t allow himself to – but nevertheless a tale of love. Of lost love. Of lost causes. Of loss. And of exquisite words like indeed, frank, profound, buoyed.

I trust, Diary, that you will keep my revelations of said funk to yourself. I see no purpose in sharing these sentiments with the world. I will simply carry on as Stevens did as he motored his way across the country, eyes always on his end goal (though his focused attention on this goal came too obviously came way too late in the piece for poor Miss Kenton).

Nina

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