Lately, I have become aware of a strange new phenomenon in my head. I think it’s got something to do with the MA and never reading for pleasure any more, rather reading with a desperate intent to try and find a deep meaning in a book so that I can construct an essay around it. So I lie in The Bed every evening, clutching Martin Amis in one hand and a pen in the other, and reading feverishly as I graffiti the book in the desperate hope that at least some of my notes will actually mean something.
But what all this – coupled with the fact I am unable to think about anything but my impending essay during my entire day – has led to, is me ‘reading’ imaginary passages of Martin Amis, or whoever, in my sleep. In a half-awake, half-asleep state, half my mind is making up the next pages of the book, while the other half of my mind is lambasting me for not making notes on it… while a tiny bit of common sense tries to remind me that it’s not a real book. I tried explaining this to P this morning, but he looked at me like I was talking, erm, rubbish. Ahem.
At this rate, I shall be writing my essay on an entirely fictional version of “Money”. Does that count towards the original thinking they’re always telling us to conjure up?
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