Having been relegated to staying home, firstly by an op and recovery and then by pure, common-garden anti-sociability, I found myself not having anything to write about. That's a blatant lie. I was still thinking of things to write about, I was just not writing them. I don't know why but the writing's just not coming. Writer's Block? Of course I've heard of it but surely you have to be a Real Writer to get it. Nope. Apparently not.
This city is making me claustrophobic.
So. Here I am. Trying to open the channels. To write again. But I feel like I have nothing to say. How many words can one write about that? One hundred and eight, apparently. Yes, I just hand-counted them.
On a very positive note, with regard to opening up those writing channels and curing my claustrophobia, our plans to head Karoo-wards, where my heart swells and my lungs fill with air, are very much coming to fruition. Come October, we'll be heading inland to bask under huge blue skies and sit on the stoep doing nothing (and, hopefully, writing a trashy novel) while donkeys amble by on the dust road. Bliss.
Friday, June 29, 2012
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5 comments:
Yes, write that trashy novel. Let donkeys play a role. And a warthog?
Writer's block...Does writer's procrastination count too? Right now I'd rather paint my house than sit down and bang out 2 000 words.
"Write drunk. Edit sober"
- Hemingway
"Write drunk. Edit sober" are fine words indeed, but from experience and Hemingway wouldn't know this - "never tweet when drunk"....
Lx
Geli - donkeys for sure, yes.
Fush and FA - wise words, both
xxx
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