Every word is the wrong word. Every sentence built back to front. Every comma misplaced, every dash over the top dramatic. Each thought and idea incompletely explored, the message not properly set out. Why do sometimes our minds work seamlessly and at others it feels as if you are knocking at the door of an old friend who is refusing to come to the door – ‘Hello?’ – Nothing. Its feels as though my mind is not my own, my thoughts not mine to explore, rather they have ideas of their own about their willingness to be accessed. I hold my own writing hostage. But the ransom is not money, but time.
An accurate portrayal of writer’s block? I know they say that pushing through writer’s block is about discipline, but I have been sat behind my computer or with my notebook in hand for days now, and the words won’t come. Ideas I have, the power to convey them is what I am temporarily robbed of. And yet the setting for writing seems so perfect – the house is quiet, the weather is stormy, I am sat with a cup of fresh mint tea, inside in the warm – the pathetic fallacy is entirely in my favour. It seems though that today, my mind will not be commanded.