A day of gastro-intestinal wobbles (you'd think by now I'd have figured out that what I'm doing with my body obviously isn't what the designers had in mind, but no, apparently I haven't) and apparent time-wasting. I played Warlords, Heroes and silly-buggers of varying kinds. I raided a friend's MP3s, giving myself a few hours more of music. I finally managed to download 'Sister Salvation' from Napster, after getting eight transfer errors in a row.

But also, despite all this, a day of important first steps. I saw a lecturer about an essay, which means I can now begin writing the damn thing. I cleaned up my desk, which hasn't been done since I dumped all the stuff there in February. And then it had just been transplanted directly from the room one floor below. I reopened the folder that contains all my work on the Amorphous Novel Entity (hereafter to be referred to as the Novel). I skimmed and reread the work I completed on this idea months ago. A year ago, in some cases.

I feel so removed from it. Aloof. Separate. How do I reconnect with this creative entity that fired my imagination previously, and that I am sure is my ticket to a name in raised gold print on a bookcover? How do I begin reconnecting the wires in my head that previously transferred all those ideas that boiled at the mere mention of the principle actors, or places, or events?

I feel like I've dropped a giant egg, and the shell has shattered, the pieces covering an area two-metres square around my feet. But, if I work carefully, and concentrate, I can gather up all those shards and maybe, just maybe, piece them back together.

Of course, I don't have to get them all. I can leave out the bits that look silly, that don't seem to fit in the egg anymore. And should I think that the remaining pieces would look better as, say, a peanut, then there's no reason why I have to put them back together as an egg.

The creative process is a beautiful (traumatic, scarring, liberating, comprehensive, enthralling, infuriating, awe-inspiring, impossible) thing.