So here’s a thing – after a month of being something akin to healthy I’ve gone down with labyrinthitis again (I am still totally open to any David Bowie jokes, by the way) and I’m finding it hard to read because I can’t get comfortable because of the pain and I just feel very grumpy and sorry for myself. Aww.
No, wait. No “aww”. I have all this downtime and what I should be doing, says the pesky little voice inside, is writing. I haven’t written for ages, since before the first bout of this ridiculousness, before I got the job at Waterstones, since the summer – not for ages. This is the perfect time to chip away at that writer’s block. I don’t even know why I stopped. Just got dispirited one day, I think.
Apparently, I am writing a blog post about this silly thing instead. On my phone. Which is pretty awesome, really. What’s not awesome is the vague guilt that I’m not spending this time writing what I want to write, all the stories I’ve got in my head. It doesn’t take much just to throw the early form of it on to a page. I have energy enough for this, but apparently not for that.
So, I ask you, general and noble public: how the hell do you make yourself write? What’s your proverbial kick up the bum? What’s the dynamite under your bedding? Grumpy ill girl would like to know!