The Indolence of Writers

I have often been impressed by the number of writers who started their trade thanks to illness. Being bed ridden gave Robert Louis Stevenson full rein to his imagination. Proust filled his tiny bedroom with fierce herbaceous fumes that left visitors gasping and which may or may not have helped his style. Agatha Christie disappeared for a while, only to be found living quietly in a hotel where she must have worked on some interesting plots and characters.

Unfortunately, very little has dawned on me in my isolation, except for a frantic desire to be up and about and WELL.

I should, at last knuckle down and write about all the beautiful sights I found in Tasmania almost two years ago. However, conserving energy has taken over...