Melting Manuscripts

I'M almost a third of the way through writing a new book, but trying to remain focussed in temperatures of up to thirty-five degrees has certainly been a challenge.

Things have cooled down over the last few days, thankfully, but although I have never suffered from writer's block I am beginning to wonder how on earth there can be any such thing as an equatorial literati or whether the likes of James Joyce and William James hadn't once dipped their artistic toes in some character-forming stream of consciousness that flowed out of the murky depths of the River Congo before seeping into their addled brains like cerebral lava.

Had Shakespeare ventured southwards, I am perfectly sure that his Complete Works would amount to a few pages of unintelligible, sleep-deprived gibberish. To snooze or not to snooze, that is the question.