(metaphorical) nose back to the (metaphorical) grindstone

Today is my first day back from suspension. It feels a little like sitting in a rollercoaster carriage as it settles momentarily into stillness at the top of the slope before plunging downwards. From here it is - or should be - all down: finishing the drafting of the last two chapters, conclusion, editing, checking, formatting ... done. The 'done' is still hard to imagine, but I can feel the vertigo as I stare at the rest of it.

The morning started with a stall: literally, in that my car battery waved this life farewell with one last feeble splutter. I was left sitting in the driveway waiting for the RAC, then again waiting for a new battery. Autumn was in the air, I decided, sitting in the sun in a cardigan soaking up the warmth as through it was a transitory gift. Then uni, and the parking run around, and the computer run around (my SNAP snapped!), and the admin run around when I found I needed yet another form filled in.

But I have bombarded ILL with requests for the articles that I need for the writing that is slowly accreting into chapter shape, and written 500 words. Not a total write-off of a day. It's hard to find much enthusiasm at the moment, though: not much momentum behind me, I'm either over or was never that into the texts I'm writing about, and even the arguments I'm trying to make seem either too obvious or too hard. Nose to the grindstone, I tell myself. One word after another.