There is this thing called writer’s block.
There are days when I think I have it but the more I have thought about it while staring at that blank page, it occurs to me it is more likely I cannot put words to my thoughts.
In fact, I have been staring at this page for nearly half an hour.
There are no fewer thoughts of what I might write about going through my head at this time or any other time.
It’s a matter of what words I want to put on the page.
Those thoughts are spread evenly between three different stories I’m working on, this particular blog piece, and two other stories I should be editing.
And thrown into the mix ideas for more stories, fuelled by something I just heard, or read.
Perhaps I should put these aside temporarily and take a more simplistic view.
Try doing one story at a time, get it finished, and then move onto the next.
The trouble is I have a problem concentrating on one thing at a time. It flows through to everything else which is what the house looks like a patchwork quilt, and the garden like it belongs to a manor house that had not been tended properly for years.
Should I call that house block or garden block, or am I just a chip off the old block?
There’s always something else to do that seems, at the time, to be more important.
So it’s a matter of priorities, not whether or not I have writer’s block.
Not yet, anyway.
Now, it’s time to get back to the blank piece of paper…
Ececopt the phone is ringing. Another scammer trying to part me from what little money I don’t have.