I meant to do some serious writing today, but I need to mentally dust off the curtains of my mind, and find some jump cables to restart my gummed-up creative engine. I feel befuddled too easily, and slow to start anything; I spend more time considering what I’m supposed to be doing than actively doing it. Because my time is limited by the capricious circadian rhythm of an infant, I need to take advantage of every spare minute I’m allowed. I need to snap out of it, and write like I’m turning on a light switch. Surely that can’t be too hard?
People who aren’t writers think that writing a novel comes easily, maybe because they’ve seen a film about a writer and all it takes is a montage of late-night typing, many cups of caffeinated beverages, some pensive facial expressions, and some vague impressions of the passage of time, and voila! you have a completed novel. Maybe for some authors it works that way, but never for me. My first few chapters often have the flow of a well-oiled machine – or literary diarrhoea, to use a less glamorous but perhaps more applicable metaphor. By the time I hit chapters in the teens, I’m having to make a conscious effort to push it all out. By the twenties I feel the need for some mental bran flakes. I’m not sure I’ve ever made it to the thirties. The novel dies from an internal blockage of creative constipation.
That’s why I’m trying to write every day, even just this boring old nonsense where I whine about much the same problems I always whine about. I’m hoping that by writing regularly my creativity can become regular again.
This blog is my mental bran flakes.