I may have Writer’s Block.
I try to be disciplined with this blog, aiming to write at least one post every couple of days. It doesn’t always work out like that but the intention is there, and besides, I’ve normally got a few ideas buzzing around my cotton-wool brain. The last few days… Well, I’ve been struggling.
Thinking about it, saying I’ve got Writer’s Block sounds a little grand, conjuring up images of a scrawny man in spectacles, emaciated and be-mittened and hunched over an ancient typewriter illuminated only by candlelight. I’m not at that place yet, probably because I’m not a paid author and no-one’s going to cut off my electricity if I can’t come up with a post on Detective Chimp or something. My Writer’s Block lacks anything in the way of Epic.
Maybe I should call it Blogger’s Block, but that would be lame as it a) implies bloggers aren’t real writers, which isn’t true, and b) sounds like something colonic which can be cured by eating a bit more fibre. I’m assuming that’s not true, but insert your own joke about verbal diarrhea at your convenience.
I also feel bad about confessing to all this because I remember Terry Pratchett saying that you soon stop complaining about Writer’s Block when you have an angry newspaper editor screaming at you, and in a strange way that strips me of my working class authenticity.
Ironically I’ve just written a whole post on not having anything to write about, and now I’m second guessing it all because it feels self-indulgent. I’d seek professional help, but then I think about all the great artists, and while yes, they were all crazy, they wouldn’t have struggled to fill a blog. Blake claimed to communicate with angels, he’d’ve at least got a couple of Tweets out of that.
I’m going to go cut my lawn. Maybe that will help.
At least I haven’t stooped to filling a post by babbling about not having a cure for Writer’s…