Wednesday, 18 February 2009
February Blues Catherine Johnson
I have had about eight weeks of NOT WRITING ENOUGH. Actually not writing anything if you discount some editing and a piece for the newspapers that got spiked. Before I start moaning and descend into Ed Reardon territory may I say that I like being a writer. I like it best when the words are flying and the numbers in my diary (I am almost OCD about word counts) grow faster than the funds in Bernie Madoff's Ponzi scam.
But I have not been in that happy place for some time now.
I have had a few knock backs recently, and judging from the chat amongst other writers I am not the only one. There really is only one thing we can do.
Get up, go for a swim or a walk, talk to our friends. Talk to ourselves about stories. But most of all write.
Because the best cure for all this misery is losing yourself in a really good story. One that makes you feel excited - even if nobody else wants it. That's what I keep telling myself anyway
This morning I was sitting in my favourite caff when I saw outside in the street a pigeon wandering about unable to fly because it had a ring doughnut jammed over it's head.