This post was going to be totally different. It was going to be a lively, upbeat kind of post. Then I changed my mind because I’ve finally got two hours clear to write narrative and I can’t think of anything. I am at that horrible place on my journey where I am questioning everything and have no answers – no story, no dialogue, no structure, no plot. Nothing. White noise. Blank. Blankety sodding blank.
I’ve lost it. The whole thread of the story seems pointless. Why did I even start it in the first place? I could cry. What on earth made me think that I could write a book – let alone get it published?
Poo. Pants. Wee.
This isn’t just writers block it’s writers failure. I can’t see what is going on in the world of my book and I don’t see the characters futures at all. They’re all still there, sitting twiddling their thumbs waiting for me to do something but I see belligerence in their eyes. Defiance like, “You want me to do what? Yeah? Make me!”
And to make matters worse I’ve gone and told everyone I’m a writer! And my amazing, cool, lovely supportive sister has told everyone I’m a writer – BLOODY HELL! – I’m not a writer. I’m an idiot with a crap story.
It’s round two of the writers group tomorrow night AND I’ve got that big Gala Dinner on Saturday (you know the one where I was going to introduce myself confidently – ha!). I have a dress and no shoes. That sums it up really.
A writer with nothing to write isn’t really a writer.
Image: nothing, nowt, zilch etc.