A kind of narcolepsy

On and off for the last few weeks, I've been working and not working on a long review. I wish it would end. Always an impulse to round off what appear to rambling, impressionistic paragraphs with a conclusive judgment and have done with it. Move on. Instead, I let the writing lie for a few days. Then it stews. Ideas and sentences simmer. Finally, when the discrepancy between idea and its expression seems to be at its most unbreachable, something happens. It happens in a moment, a kind of narcolepsy. And that's actually what I write for. Not the writing. When I hear about writers complaining that they don't have time to write, I think: not me. Not that I have time. I don't write after all. Just that it doesn't matter. What matters to me are those stewings and simmerings and narcoleptic moments. Then it's a matter of carrying on, on and on, to end it all.