I’ve Got Work to Do

There’s a to do list as long as my arm but I’m sitting here in front of a blank screen .. because you know “I should be writing.”

I really haven’t been writing often enough, recently. I have been working in the day job way too much and really my brain feels like mush and it’s behaving as such.

I’m holding on with a very slippery grip to my thoughts and any ideas that might just might be vaguely interesting or helpful to others. Or even myself.

Does anyone know where I can get spare energy from?

I’m constantly yawning and falling asleep on the couch.

I want to be too many different things and I’ve left my run a bit late.

I’m having nightmares about the day job ( which is a pleasant enough job, if occasionally unpredictable)

I must have been having a lucid dream ( or nightmare!) because I heard myself in my dream telling myself this isn’t real!!! I’d have been in so much trouble if it was.

Anyway, I used to have a muse, otherwise known as someone who had pissed me off so much I just had to write all about their unfair misjudgements. I understood where they were coming from but they misunderstood, judged and assumed while all the time avoiding a discussion that may have saved the day. I wrote about that and …just that whole episode really, the why the how mostly the whys … all of them! Well, we were friends once I suppose. It’s easy to break that. Surprisingly so.

As I have written all I want to write about that subject many times over, and in many different genres I find that there isn’t anything else I am so irked about. There really isn’t. I’m quite content.

Is contentment the enemy of creativity or certain kinds of creativity anyway? Being irked ( irked being too mild a word I was seething with anger, with myself mostly) well being irked helped the writing process. So I’m finding it hard to drum up writing ideas. That I even care about.

What has happened to my wild imagination that flourished as a child and pushed clunky practicality out of way?

I didn’t have any room in my head for times tables or long division. I wanted to draw, to create stories about monsters and flying and getting lost in the woods. I had a constant stream of ideas. I either drew them wrote them chattered about them until I was told to pipe down I even created them in 3D using plasticine pipe cleaners and felt.

Apparently it was more important that l learnt how to calculate and be obedient.

I got it after I’d been slapped down enough times.

I hadn’t put pen to paper (or it’s modern equivalent ) since I had to to pass a University course. There was nothing joyful or cathartic about that form of writing.

The last time I started to write, took a correspondence writing course in fact, was right after a break up that I initiated even though I wasn’t sure that really wanted that person out of my life,

But I’d made a choice and I was stuck with it. Writing about it wrapped up as a fictional story was I recall of some help. I can’t tell you about the course, whether I finished it or not, but it would be another 20 years before I put pen to paper again.

And then only because I was irked. My muse stated that they’d put it “all over Facebook “ about what an awful person I was. Well, that was like a gauntlet being slapped down if ever there was one. The only person that could talk about me with any real authority… was well, me.

But that was then. It’s ancient history. I’m as calm as a deep lake right now. I said all I needed to say about myself and my account was the honest one. As I say all a long time ago. At this moment I feel like I have nothing very interesting to say!

And my imagination is stuck in neutral.

I would love to hear your thoughts about and experiences of this frustrating matter.