I am now on the litmusphere. or in it? or under it? whatever, I'm there.

I don't know if it's writer's block, laziness or depression but I am not very productive right now. thesis sits untouched, ideas get scribbled down as one line then not developed, and I have 40 hours of very boring paid work to do that is lurking and putting me off doing anything else. meanwhile, the back copies of the New Yorker pile up, also feeling like work. I've only just started letting myseld skip the bits on american politics; no matter how well written, I just don't have time.

the Best Australian Stories piece has been somewhat well received and may yet get a run in a newspaper. hooray for squeezing every drop out of a good story. and Wet Ink of Adelaide are taking a nonfiction thinkpiece about family trees, black armbands and immigration. so I should be pleased. but all I can think about is the lack of productivity, and how I don't have a contract for a novel yet.