So you start writing and you continue, word by word, one after another: 5,000, 10,000, 20,000 and then…you turn your head away and BANG!, you hit the buffers, nowhere to go, no more forward momentum. You open up the story; it’s been two weeks damn it, not two years but when you look inside it’s like taking a straight razor and cutting yourself to see what comes out. 20,000+ words and there they sit, destined for the file marked ‘In progress’, along with half a dozen other 20K’s that came to the same end. It’s like trying to build a Lego house but someone’s blocked up the holes in the bricks.
The penultimate day of the year and I sit, devoid of ideas and inspiration.
Am I destined for a life of flash fiction and off-the-cuff poetry? Fuck.