Why is it, that when I’m at work for example, my mind is abuzz with things to write stuff about? But when I’m sat here, I can think of nothing but grey?
Is it perhaps that menial tasks concentrate the mind, allowing you to attain an almost transcendental state of oneness? Or is it just this thing they call writers block?
I know I’ve had some good ideas over the last few weeks, but god knows where they’ve gone. Most of them were dreamt up in a particularly slow meeting in Brussels, but I thought it bad practice to write “Why cheese is ace!” on my notepad, underneath the various scribbles that passed as notes. These elaborate thoughts were then lost in the void, never to be dreamt again.
I’ve thought up some stunning ideas whilst dancing in nightclubs. Christ knows why, I really should go to better clubs. Perhaps it’s the dodgy dancing. Perhaps it’s the drink.
So here I am now, sat in front of the white page, with the cursor flashing expectantly at me. Sorry mate, I don’t know. No really, I did know, the other day, but it’s gone, like a thief in the night. For a few blessed minutes cheese really was ace, but now it’s just cheese again. Tsk.
I know, I’ll try a random sentence generator. “The stewardess thought it was safe to run.” What? That’s no good. I wanted a “Fishcakes and Fish fingers, why?” or “Do peacocks know they look like twats?” Alas, to no avail.
Writer’s block is horrible. I hate it, as it can’t be affected by mood, time or drugs. All you can do is sit, and hope that the trapdoor opens, in collaboration with you being ready to write. We’ve all been there. Usually with some sort of education figure stood in front of you and the sound of a ticking clock in your ears.
So, almost 250 words on nothing. Not bad, eh? This could be the start of something. Or, most likely, nothing.