Call it burnout. Call it writers fatigue. Call it brain fog. Call it being absolutely knackered. Call it whatever you will but I think I’ve got it. Basically, I’m mess gentle reader.

I’ll elaborate.

My current state of anguish came to light really, last Wednesday. It had been a quiet day as neither Ange nor myself were feeling at our best and the morning was spent in happy and carefree chatter between ourselves. Later on, in the early evening, I decided that I really ought to stir myself and get some writing done. After all that next novel won’t write itself.

So I positioned myself at the laptop with a pint glass of water at hand and my writing hat perched on my head at a jaunty angle and I set to it. I soon found that the process was becoming somewhat laborious and I was finding myself easily distracted. Nonetheless I wrote 850 words in just under and hour.

Then I read it back to myself.

I’m trying to think of just one single word that adequately describes those 850 words and the only one that readily springs to mind is…

Shite!!!

Yes, I’d written pure and unadulterated shite. A load of old rubbish that I never want to see in print as long as I live.

In less than one hour I had made Joe out to be some kind of rural chemist and had turned the fierce-some Lady Stark-Raven into some kind of prissy schoolmistress. As you know, Joe is a slow learner and Her Ladyship has a temper like a Bengal tiger with a port hangover and inflamed piles. However, none of their natural traits came through at all in the pathetic garbage I’d written.

Only one solution to the problem – Delete!

So what went wrong? I mean, I’ve made a pretty good start on the next novel, writing 11700 words that were incredibly good and I was enjoying it too. And then wallop. Just like that. Crash and burn.

Oh it’s just a blip, I hear you say. Well I’m not so sure.

It’s been five days now and I haven’t touched the novel since and I’ve no immediate intention to do so. I honestly believe I’ve lost my novel writing mojo, just when I was on a roll. And I think I know the reason why.

I’m a burnt out wreck. That’s what I am. It’s all been too much the last nine months and I think I’ve fried my brain to a dwindled crisp. Of course, rushing headlong into another novel when I’ve only just released the last one was a big mistake.

I should have given it time. A month at least I reckon, if not more. I should have just focussed on promoting Vole but oh no, I had to start another one straight away didn’t I and now I’m thinking that it could be a month before I even attempt to return to it.

Allow me, if you will for a minute, to expound on why I believe this has happened.

If you recall, I published Hot Eire in the latter days of June last year. I was delighted with that little book and the reaction and feedback I received towards it. So what did I do next?

1. I started work on Vole almost immediately.

2. I began work on the second series of Stevenson Speaks.

3. I moved home.

4. Buggered off to Scotland for a week in the midst of it all.

5. Contracted Bell’s Palsy.

Actually, the list could go on and on. Life has been an absolute blur of chaotic occurrence and over-exertion that I’ve foolishly ignored and kept ploughing on with the most challenging book I’ve written yet.

In fact, the whole time has been a challenge. My wife has had gout and a heart attack in that time, my own mental and physical health has been urine poor, we’ve had two good friends die from cancer, we’ve had politics, pressure and personal clashes with other people, a flood at Blessham Hall and that’s not forgetting Christmas and all the stress and financial burdens it brings.

And there’s more, believe me there’s more.

And through all of it I’ve somehow kept blogging, podcasting and working on that beastly little wretch of a novel. And now I think I’ve reached the end of my tether. What a fool I was to imagine that I could begin another novel so soon. There’s a word for that kind of person – Berk!

As I type this my shoulders, arms and neck muscles are making me want to cry with the agony they’re in and I have a nasty pain in my right hand side which is worrying me a bit. Why am I putting myself through the wringer even more by attempting to write another novel so soon?

We watched the film about Enid Blyton last week, starring the wonderful Helena Bonham Carter, and I was astonished at how prolific that lady was when it came to the old typewriter. She wrote hundreds of books that are still enthralling children all over the world today. I also think about Dickens, Collins and the Brontës who wrote those great epic classics without the aid of a laptop and word processing software. They used a pen dipped in ink for crying out loud.

I suppose I shouldn’t compare myself to such genii but I would love to reach their incredible level of output. But hey, that ain’t gonna happen.

So what’s next?

Well, I’ve taken wise council from two of the people I trust most in this world; my gorgeous wife Ange and my excellent friend and confidante Kenny (Mac magician) Scotland, and I’m stepping away from it for a while.

We’ve got another good friend visiting us from across the Channel this week for a few days and then a long weekend in the charming town of Glossop where I shall be resting my ass off.

When we come back I’m just going to put what little energy I have into promoting Vole, recording the weekly podcast and keeping this here blog updated. And in between, a whole lot more rest. Hopefully then, around the middle of April maybe, after Easter is out of the way, I’ll make a tentative return to that novel and hopefully do two of my most well loved characters the justice that I had denied them in that awful shash that I wrote last Wednesday.

Watch this space.