On Writing...

I've been incredibly frustrated this week trying to finish an article. Circumstances (and people)have conspired against me, so on Saturday I set off to an anonymous cafe where I could drink tea, and be undisturbed enough to finish my project.

The food queue was long and impatient. While we waited for chips to be fried, and bacon to be grilled, I got chatting to the bloke behind me. Just a normal, trivial exchange of pleasantries, nothing exciting at all (although he was quite cute, and I really wanted to run my fingers through his gently curling hair). But I digress. As I waited to pay for my bacon roll and mug of hot, builder's tea, words and sentences started streaming through my poor brain.

I rushed to a free table (slopping my drink en route) and pulled out a notebook. My bacon grew cold and greasy while I frantically wrote a short story based on our Brief Encounter. Words, and phrases flew from somewhere onto the paper, until the staff started throwing me funny looks. I left the cafe with the first draft of a story, and a still-unfinished article.

I've spent a good three days this week trying to write this damned feature, unable to find the hook, the right tone, or a decent angle for the piece. And that's how the process seems to be. For me, at least. Some days I have thirty-seven words to show for my efforts, and others are spent trying to prevent the sparks that are flying from my pencil burning holes in my clothes.

It's a bizarre way to spend your life.

I don't believe that any writer chooses to write (it's far too much like hard work); I think that writing chooses you. I may sound batty (I am), or pretentious (I'm not), but I write because I have to. Simple as.

I Surrender...

It's official; I surrender. I give up. I've just spent the last three days sitting at the laptop typing. A feature, a film and character outline and my Industry Analysis proposal. I've worn an inch off the end of my fingers and my body has seized into sitting position. I've got a yellow, fluffy blanket wrapped round my legs because the my blood ceased circulating thirty-seven hours ago.

My comfort blanket is scorched in several places from the sparks that have back-fired from my (now stubby) fingers flying over the keyboard. Seven old teacups, in various state of mouldy decay surround my space. I've fed the kids pasta for the last three nights because it's so quick. God alone knows how they're still growing and scurvy-free...

I wouldn't mind (so much), but even after all that, I'm still behind bloody shedule!! And now, I've got to start on the piggin' novel. Oh, dear God, give me a break. I'm all worded-out...