The agony of detail

Its not easy to write honestly, to hide nothing from the reader, to not to present an idealised self, no matter how subtle the manipulation...but I suspect the power of the writing is in direct proportion to the honesty.
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I have an aversion to detail, I don't seem to have the patience for it, I want to rush into abstractions and the unification of apparently discreet pehenomena. This is why it is highly unlikely I - as I am currently constituted in my 'false fixities' - will ever write a novel.
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I have adopted the daily routine of a successful writer; I arise in the morning, drop child off at school, and then spend the morning writing in the library, before returning home and futskering around for the rest of the day with minor domestic duties and inconsequential activity til its time for bed: only problem is I'm not a successful writer, and I don't have the economic base to support such a lifestyle;
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Instead of choosing between poetry and pragmatism, I have embarked upon a programme of pragmatic poetry.

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Footnote to my WIP: "My life as a footnote" *
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* he bestrode the world stage like a crack between the floorboards