On 'better'

Yesterday I wrote a piece for my Books Live blog: I have found myself in a usual place: am I too happy to write anything decent? Maybe to dig into the soul of the characters requires me to be on the brink. Each sentence I type looks terrible. The first draft of anything is rubbish, I say. But deep down I know there is rubbish and then there is unsalvageable crap. Perhaps happy is the wrong word. Simply not dwelling in the gloom. For it is true, the fear is mostly gone. Nor does the shadow’s whisper cloak and tug,...