The other day at work one of the girls that I work with was writing some fiction in a notebook of hers and it’s given me the writing bug once again, which is great because lately I’ve been feeling rather blocked and when it came to writing words either on paper or on a blindingly illuminated computer screen it seems that I’ve come down with a form of literary constipation.
Not as bad as the typical constipation which would leave you curled up in the fetal position on the toilet wondering why you hadn’t had that damn bran muffin when you had the chance, but still completely unsatisfying.
But that’s not my problem anymore, now I’ve got all these thoughts flying through my brain and I’m having trouble getting them out in any manner that makes even a smidgen of sense. Combine that with a brain that seems to be getting distracted more and more lately and it makes for a deadly combination.
Even writing this blog is becoming difficult, and I don’t want to write the same old run of the mill entries that have me contemplating the excitement that comes from separating the colors from the whites in my laundry. The joy of getting that damn pesky stain out from yet another shirt of my children, and I’m sure the woes of doing at least 5 loads of laundry everyday are just not as stimulating to read about as it is to do them.
So the pressure is on to write interesting, stimulating entries in which I can be assured that you, the reader, will not be as bored reading the material as I am in writing it.
I could always resort to the Meme Movement that is all around the blogging world, and believe me I have used my fair share of writing prompts in the past and I’m sure to use them again in the future. It’s just that using those prompts seems impersonal to me, it’s not something that I’m creating but that I’m reporting on instead. I don’t know if that even makes sense.
I will use the prompts again, I know this, but it’s when one of them ‘speaks‘ to me and inspires me with as much excitement a chocolate addict gets when invited to visit the Cadbury’s factory and sample as much of the product as their little heart desires.
So once again I’m left sitting here with the desire to write but cannot decide on what to write about, which is most definitely worse than the literary constipation that I’ve been living with.
This is more like the need to have a movement and being stuck in an elevator that is full with a crap load of people (ha ha, that was bad wasn’t it?). The desire to write, the need to write and the subject matter to write about is all there, but I just can’t seem to get it to flow from my brain, through my arms and into my finger tips where I can key it into the computer.
You know, reading this entry back to myself before I post it, I’ve come up with the decision that I’ve managed to say in a very long winded way, that I’m having trouble coming up with something to write about, despite the fact that I’ve got a million and one different ideas actually floating around in my head.