I’ve got a bad case of writer’s block. Blogger’s block, fiction block, doctorate block. (Although it’s really just the first two because I’m not doctorating for a few weeks around Christmas. Everyone needs a break from work. But I still find academic writing harder than I expected, as so much of it is such a wank. So many articles are written to exclude people, to keep them out of your ideas, which is dumb because what’s the point of researching and writing something if your only audience is a small group of academics in the same field? Sure, someone may mention your study in their literature review years later, but is that the best you can expect in the industry of ideas?)
So I thought I’d try writing through it. Any old crap and see what happens.
What happens is this post.
Apologies in advance.
I’ve started writing fiction again, starting with a short story. Haven’t done that in 15 years. I haven’t got the ovaries to post it here, but trust me, that’s a good thing for you guys. For the last two days I’ve been on a two-cider-block-buster: after two drinks, I just write with a vague plot in mind, safe in the knowledge that I can cut cut cut. And I will cut cut cut.
So I sat down to write a post about writing.
I got up and vacuumed the floor.
I ate a biscuit.
I photographed it:
I came back to the post and uploaded the photo.
I admired the “swan vase with evil dragon face” that I bought on ebay yesterday:
I mopped myself in a corner with the computer, in a less extreme version of this:
I went to the gym.
I sat back at the computer and looked at this post.
I have a very clean house.