Keeping My Fingers In The Shit.

My brain has stopped working. Not entirely, that would stop me from eating, breathing and talking, let alone typing. It’s just not thinking. There are no thoughts and ideas knocking about, there is an absence of pondering, very nearly no day dreaming is taking place. I’m still staring at things, keeping up appearances as it were, but that’s all I’m doing: staring. Inside, there is only void. A huge cathedral like room, four dark grey walls continuing up to forever, a single chair in a dim spotlight. Should I try to produce any creativity, to force the forming of, of anything, all that happens is the chair disappears and the spotlight goes out. And I panic. And I strain to have something in my noggin. And my dark room gets darker and darker until I can’t even imagine a room. People will know this phenomenon as Writers Block.

As this post suggests, this is a bad time for Writers Block, what with all the writing and that. The disease has eaten in to all of my projects, each has hit a wall, not because of a lack of potential, but because of a lack of a creator. Ordinarily these things pass, or cogs are loosened by distraction. Not thinking about it usually facilitates thinking about it, how crazy is that? Well not this time. This time, not thinking about it means just that, it is gone and forgotten while I game or watch TV, but the nothing is just as not there when I return. I’ve had slight breaks in the fog, the odd line of dialogue here, an almost idea that soon vanishes and probably wasn’t any good there, but the fog then descends in force. I hate fog. Now, my initial reaction was to carefully and logically attempt to work out what was causing this mind blot, because previous to it beginning I was chock full of some good stuff. Possibly. Nothing has really changed in BobLand though, so that wasn’t much use. I’m moving soon, but that’s a good thing. I’ll be self sufficient again, a grown up man once more. I’ll be in charge of my destiny, able to do anything. I’ll have a lovely new writing area, all organised and easy to use, there will be a sharp increase in productivity – oh.
That’ll be it then.
Pressure. The self created kind. I mean, it could be that, right? Soon I’ll really have no excuses for not doing what I want to, nothing other than me to get in the way. Why would I put so much in the hands of that idiot. So after I’ve moved, if I find myself sat doing nothing, or spending all my time in the pub, and I catch myself thinking ‘I should really be writing’, I won’t be able to blame a lack of work space, or a need to spend a little time on my me, or anything, because it’ll be totally up to that bloody me again. I’ll have to do stuff. My brain agrees, it would appear, and in order to circumvent any failure or embarrassment it is giving me one more out: the ability to lay the blame on the inability to come up with anything. Bastard brain. By now it should be well aware that I am used to disappointment and failure and that I am keen to just try some stuff, whether I triumph or not. Anyway, this scenario seems to be the most likely – the block is due to a carefully buried fear of not being any good at the thing I desire to succeed in – so now I just need to shake it out and get on with it.
Phase one is to leave everything alone for a few days, except the blog. One has to keep ones hand in, otherwise one is never allowed to dip digits again. Maybe I’ll pack a few things, ready for M-Day. I’ll go out, have some laughs and some chats, spend a weekend with the offspring, remind her her dads pretty cool, all things considered. Might even shoot some things, digitally, with a variety of hilariously over the top death bringers. Then, when it’s all settled a bit, inside my face, I shall lock myself away and hammer out many words until some of them make sense and are good, or not rubbish. Whatever. Sometimes it’s difficult to think of anything to blog about, anything that really grabs me anyway, but at least I can always write about not being able to. That’s a precious thing, a venue in which I feel compelled to produce something, and in which that something can be on any topic I choose, it means I don’t totally forget how to create a stream of self involved horse shit. Horse shit in which I dip my digits.

Oh stop it, it’s made of words.

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