“Self-doubt is what distinguishes man from the other animals.” What do you think of that? I wish I’d started an anthology of such pronouncements about 60 years ago, because I’ve been hearing them forever and sometimes made them up myself, as above. I expect someone has already done it and all you have to do is put “what distinguishes man from the animals” in Google and by the time it takes to make a cup of tea, Amazon will dispatch you a nicely-packaged book of quotes.
However, I won’t search Google myself, for there’s a new style in this blog: write it in 20 minutes and get on with life. I composed this post mentally whilst in the kitchen, mixing a pancake batter & washing last night’s clutter of dishes. I nearly knocked the blender to the floor, and whilst rescuing it I spilt milk everywhere. The profaneness of my cussing polluted the morning more than the considerable mess I made. I have become clumsy, and something is unbalanced. I do not actually cry over spilt milk, for the proverb says there is no use to do it; and a dishcloth and mop can fix it good. (Why is my writing becoming American?) But in human interactions, I occasionally get things so spectacularly wrong that self-doubt makes me want to wipe the slate clean and start over (another Americanism: in English English we’d say “start all over again”).
Anyhow, coming to the point swiftly, I’ll stick within the established 500-word format here, but with a more spontaneous flow, as I do when commenting on blog posts; eschewing my accustomed literary formula which controls style, content, structure till it all becomes a burden.
Yesterday, in reaction to this self-inflicted stranglehold, I decided to start another blog, which could be freer in structure, allowing longer posts, less of a pompous persona, etc etc. Bored and restless, I found myself reviewing a sex therapy book, which I have mentioned before. I intended merely to criticise the writing, its approach and prose style being the worst I have ever seen in a published book, and therefore fascinating in a certain way. Then I thought it was hardly fair to jeer from the sidelines, without having a go at doing better myself. In no time at all, I found myself starting my own sex therapy book, as some kind commenters had suggested.
Once I’d plunged in, it was hard to stop (as the bishop admitted at his trial). It got too unwieldy for a blog. Then the penny dropped and my brain lit up. DIY Sex Therapy could be a chapter in the book I’ve been planning to write since forever. DIY: Do It Yourself, as in servicing your own car, instead of sending it to the workshop.
One chapter should be enough to tell all I know. Anyhow, I’m planning on the reader being impatient to chuck the book out the bed with wild abandon, and get on with the practical.
a wayfarer’s notes 