There’s a common conception amongst writers that there’s really no such thing as ‘writer’s block’. And it’s true. There isn’t. Look at this for proof. I’m writing. I’m just not writing what I oughta be. That’s the difference. Today I’ve written a mini-shopping list, a letter excusing the Girl from PE and a couple of comments on a couple of sites (not even Facebook, miraculously).
I’ve written stuff in my head in the bathroom – where ideas scream nearly as vociferously as the shower blast competing with the extractor fan at 6.45 in the morning – and I’ve written scenes in my head whilst at the very not-rocket-science paid job. Oh, I’ve also written two text messages and praised myself for remaining within the character limits for a one-pager whilst spelling everything correctly and using perfect punctuation and grammar to shame Stephen Fry. It’s sad, I know. But writing’s in my soul. And though it DOES matter that I can’t find the word inside me to continue with either book I'm currently writing, I know that even if they both remain at a standstill for the time being, this too will pass and the words will come. As these words have come. See?
See me blog.