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This week, I don't even seem to be able to muster sufficient words for this diary entry, let alone for my novel. I still haven't recovered from my re-reading of the work in progress. I still question whether there's any point in carrying on. I still shut myself in my room just about every evening and try to fill the empty screen before me as well as I can.

I guess I can't really give up, not just yet. For one thing, I wouldn't know what else to do. I think I've lost the ability to be idle. No bad thing, perhaps. I've just about convinced myself that I AM a writer, by virtue of the fact that I DO write. Now I'm getting obsessed with the question of whether I'm a GOOD writer. I've been tempted to watch Amadeus again. I think that's probably one temptation I should resist. What's that line about the god of mediocrity?

Did you know that the formal term for navel-gazing is omphaloskepsis?