Word pretzels. It’s been a while. For a month I have sat on my laurels and not written a word, as thousands upon thousands (don’t take any notice of those figures on the right hand side of my page) of dedicated followers rent their shirts and cry, “Where is he? Where has he gone? How can he forsake us?’
Well, truth is, like most writers, I just run out of puff. Nothing inspired me. My life memories deserted me. Nothing significant or thought provoking happened in November. Well, besides the presidential election, but nobody was surprised there, were they?
It’s true. Me, the most verbose, opinionated social media junkie had run out of things to say. I’d sit at my keyboard and wait for the words to flow. Nothing. I’d force it and try and write words. I couldn’t even manage that. ‘Start writing!’ I’d tell my brain.
‘Flibberlob’,it said, ‘gamma jujube floobilip.’
I was finished. The chances of writing a gripping 21st century defining novel were about as likely as Donald Trump joining a Tijuana band. What’s more, all the stories of my bewildering life from council estate to edamame bean munching middle class country squire appeared to be told.
But that’s writer’s block for you.
However, one thing my overconfident and conceited self conscious keeps telling me is: writing isn’t a hobby, it’s a compulsion. So there will be more to follow, including my review of 2016, which, following the year we’ve had, would be next to impossible NOT to write.
For now, respect. Me out…