Nothing to say
I feel I should be making more of an effort to write things here, but I can't think of anything pithy, amusing, whingeing, light-hearted, sentimental or just plain plain. Blame it on the data entry work I'm ploughing through at the moment - it certainly seems to have bludgeoned my muse into submission.
I started planning a short story late last week and since then I've written the square root of diddly-squat. It's festering there somewhere, in the back of my mind, and sometime soon it will force it's way out through my taxonomy-strained fingers and into the wider world. But the great novel plan seems further away than ever.
There's something about the way my mind works (or doesn't work, depending on your point of view) that makes it very hard for me to concentrate on the here and now when there's something new and exciting on the horizon. Thus the trip to Oz an NZ lurks like a pirate ship in the ocean of my attention. Just when I think I might be getting somewhere, it appears from the fog, skull and crossbones fluttering in the breeze and cries of 'avast, ye salty sea dogs, ha harr' or somesuch filling the air. Distracted, I can only sink to the bottom of the sea, where my creativity can feed the fishes until nothing but my pale white bones remain.
Or something.
Maybe it's a summer thing. I can't bear to be cooped up whilst outside it is sunny and warm. We only get two or three days of summer in Wales, so it seems a crime to waste it in front of a computer screen.
Or maybe I'm just an incredibly lazy bastard who can't be arsed engaging his brain for the amount of time it takes to get the words flowing again. That could be it.
I went for a run yesterday - the first time in about a month. This could be the new leaf, turned over and exposing its soft underparts to the harsh scrutiny of the world.
What do you think?
I started planning a short story late last week and since then I've written the square root of diddly-squat. It's festering there somewhere, in the back of my mind, and sometime soon it will force it's way out through my taxonomy-strained fingers and into the wider world. But the great novel plan seems further away than ever.
There's something about the way my mind works (or doesn't work, depending on your point of view) that makes it very hard for me to concentrate on the here and now when there's something new and exciting on the horizon. Thus the trip to Oz an NZ lurks like a pirate ship in the ocean of my attention. Just when I think I might be getting somewhere, it appears from the fog, skull and crossbones fluttering in the breeze and cries of 'avast, ye salty sea dogs, ha harr' or somesuch filling the air. Distracted, I can only sink to the bottom of the sea, where my creativity can feed the fishes until nothing but my pale white bones remain.
Or something.
Maybe it's a summer thing. I can't bear to be cooped up whilst outside it is sunny and warm. We only get two or three days of summer in Wales, so it seems a crime to waste it in front of a computer screen.
Or maybe I'm just an incredibly lazy bastard who can't be arsed engaging his brain for the amount of time it takes to get the words flowing again. That could be it.
I went for a run yesterday - the first time in about a month. This could be the new leaf, turned over and exposing its soft underparts to the harsh scrutiny of the world.
What do you think?
Comments
On a less-related note, you should be receiving a package for the antipodes any day now. Just make sure you bring back a nice Morton Bay Bug for me, OK? And some nice wine... Mmmmmmmm, Australian wine...