I am writing a feature article. Anyone who knows me will already know this.

I have been talking about it, and thinking about it, ordering books and articles and reading about my topic for months.

This week I started writing. You know that moment, when you suddenly realise that all those thoughts, feelings and inspirations, suddenly need to be trapped, like rare butterflies and pinned to the page.

Anyway, like I said. It was time to begin and no amount of, pencil tapping, mind-mapping or finger flexing was going to improve things.

I spent half of Tuesday writing an introduction (crystalizing what I wanted to say).

I spent all of (and I mean all day) Wednesday banging out a first draft. It is woeful, of course (first drafts always are), and finally scribbled a conclusion after lights out (a-not-tonight dear-I-have-a conclusion-to-mull-over sort of affair).

But as I sat alone in my room today, ready to hammer my rough ploughshare into a sword, I had a clarifying thought:

I don’t have to do this article, I thought.

It probably won’t be accepted.

And … I certainly won’t get paid for it.

The sun is shining, the birds are singing. I could be shopping, or having lunch with friends. At the pool or the botanic gardens or the museum or the movies. Playing draughts, or skittles or monolpoly.

But I am not.

I am doing a 2,500 self imposed essay … and I am enjoying it.

Do you think there is something wrong with me?