Anne Enright has a new novel coming out later this month, that I almost daren’t read. I’ve read the excerpt in the Irish Times, and Belinda McKeon’s review, and this should be enough to convince me that I shouldn’t. But, as usual, having the reckless streak that I do, I’ll probably ignore my own good advice. It sounds amazing.

The problem is, lately I have had the misfortune to happen upon some really good books. Pond, by Claire-Louise Bennett was the most recent, unless you count what I’m currently reading, On Immunity, by Eula Biss. Both of these writers understand set-up, argument, and pacing far too well. Lisa McInerney’s The Glorious Heresies is an incredibly well-written, highly entertaining literary romp, which I enjoyed in the same way I enjoyed Don Quixote or Tristram Shandy. They’re not exactly the same kind of books – Lisa does plot, and she does it rather well too – more the same kind of fun. Not long before that there was Jenny Offill’s Dept of Speculation, spare and stylish and often funny. I was introduced to Clarice Lispector recently too, and Lars Iyer, and Evie Wyld. I haven’t read a bad book in a while. I have been spoiled and ruined.

The problem is impending publication – and the inevitable comparisons I’m making before anyone else can. And then there’s the next novel, the dreaded Work In Progress – can it ever compete with the wonderful books I’ve been reading? Can it even compete with my own? In short, I have The Fear, and I suspect there’s nothing to be done except keep typing. And maybe whistle a happy tune…