I’m stuck. I want to write you a great post, a pithy post, a post that really says something, but I’ve hit a bit of a slump. I’m all blocked up.
I say it’s all because I have no time to write, and in a way that’s true. Small people tend to crowd my headspace these days and (while I love them and my vocation fiercely – I’m living the dream, I truly am), I crave an hour or two alone to write as much as a twelve-year-old girl craves a One-Direction poster signed by Harry or Corey or whatever his name is.
But in another way, that’s completely not true. When I’m stung by a good writing idea, I’ll write when I have no time at all, furiously scribbling on old receipts and the backs of envelopes whilst the house falls into disrepair all around me.
Good times. But I’ve no idea what to do to get stung. It just happens.
I was talking to my friend Strider today. He’d brought Merri and Pippin over for a play (Arwen was working and Samwise was at a sleepover). As we sipped hot beverages and gazed at our children rolling about on the trampoline (“Simon says: take off your pants!”), Strider asked me about my blog: did I have any posts in the works? And was he ever going to get mentioned? (I promised him a Tolkein-themed pseudonym months ago).
So I told him, here’s what I’m working on at the moment (except that I’m not working on any of them):
- two short stories for a local competition
- two articles for Seton Magazine
- A new whole series of blog posts that I want to make into a linky
- Another Art in August linky
- this post
Strider nodded wisely. “Just pick one, Kate. You’ve made it too hard for yourself. Don’t worry about the others until the first one is done.”
He’s right. I’ve allowed everything to pile up and bottleneck and have become all overwhelmed. And the more time passes from my last post the greater the pressure to write something really epic to compensate for the long wait. I get paralysed by perfection. And this makes me avoid writing even more.
Amidst all this confusion, my Inner Critic saunters in and takes advantage of the situation and insists loudly that none of these ideas are any good anyway and I’m kidding myself if I think I am any sort of writer. I think guiltily of all the readers I must be losing because they think I don’t write here any more, that Laptop on the Ironing Board is the cyber-equivalent of a ghost town, not worth visiting. And then my mind crowds with images of creepy abandoned amusement parks and rusty swing sets and tumbleweeds and I feel so sad for my poor neglected blog and I think I should really write ten very special posts to make up for it and then I remember that’s what got me into this mess in the first place.
So, here is a post that’s not so epic but which I hope will act as a sort of brain-Metamucil and get things moving again.
There’s nothing like being regular, after all.