As regulars will have gleaned, recently I have been experiencing what I can only describe as a slump of near-catastrophic proportions. I compare it with gamely attempting to scale the north side of the highest mountain of treacle whilst wearing welly-boots and not a whole lot else. And without the Kendal mint cake.
But this evening, after a good old fashioned but very gently aimed arse-kick from my lovely fellow-writer Michele (everyone home should have one) and great advice from Fionnuala I have sat at the scary box and drummed out 1087 words. Which is good for recently. In fact recently I've been deleting more than adding. Which is pants, frankly.
If I want to die unpublished and unfulfilled then I know what (not) to do. But I don't.
There are probably morals, quotes I should be trying to find to illustrate precisely what I'm trying to say, but at 74,000 words and finding everything getting thrillier (see - I can still make words up!) by the second, I am on that helter-skelter of prose that means my fingers can't cope with the amount of literary sh*t that's trying to escape my overwrought brain with every misplaced apostrophe (sorry, Bege).
Don't stop me now - I'm having such a good time!
Of course this won't stop the hideous procrastination, I bet.