When I wasn’t a writer, by which I mean when I earned my living through methods other than writing, I had no issue whatsoever in being creative.  My mind was always ticking over, always dreaming about new ideas and new scenarios.  No task,  since I left university, had ever been sufficiently challenging to shut off that part of my mind.  Creative writing was a necessity to me, the only means that I had at my disposal to get all of those errant thoughts out of my head and onto paper.

Since I’ve been writing for a living, I’ve learned about a different level of focus.  I can’t work with the radio on, I can’t work around other people.  In honesty, I need to turn one of the rooms in the house into an office, if only to prevent me from growling at any any poor soul who enters the kitchen in search of a cup of tea.  This focus is a wonderful thing but it’s so intense that the cascade of the imaginary that used to dance around my mind, while I worked at my old job, has taken to sitting on the sidelines and waiting for the main event to complete its pirouette.

The result has been that I come to the computer to write something for fun and I find that there is nothing there.  On the days when I have the time to work for my own pleasure rather than for my bank balance, I turn inward to discover only anxious, fledgeling ideas, too nervous by far to throw themselves upon the page.  However, when one wants something, it does not do simply to give up when the way ahead appears to be challenging.

I have made a commitment to write something, everyday, even when I’m working for cash, even if I only spend twenty-five minutes on it.  Even if I’m convinced that it’s drivel and I begin to fill this site with nonsense.  I have to start somewhere.  Forgive me if the work I present to you in the coming weeks and months is less than edifying.  I intend to improve and I’m always grateful of your support and do please kick me (verbally by preference) if I fail in my commitments.



Comments are closed.