I write a blog; this blog, so I'm going to risk the assumption that whomever may be reading this has already worked out that I'm rather passionate about writing and it's something I'm not afraid to say I'm good at.
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Frank Sinatra's playing; godly. When I was seventeen it was, indeed, a very good year.
If you hadn't noticed by now I have writer's block. I know about what I want to write; paper, but I don't know quite how to approach the subject.
Do you remember my last blog? I sent the original draft along with a lucky 20p, a graffitied train ticket and a scoring from a chess match, not to mention some other bits, to Gwa. When he's not busy working he seems to get pretty lonely, and he has a pin-board so I figured I'd send him a few mementos to remind him we're all thinking of him.
Now I look at it I can see that writing in the Roman alphabet really isn't all that different to writing in morse code. If you consider the two main components of writing the way demonstrated here, straight lines and loopy bits, then squash that and change the orientation of it all we end up with dots and dashes, interesting.
I suppose we can consider this ramble to be my homage to writer's block. My question is why do we get writer's block even when we are inspired?
There are so many things I could write but I find myself only being motivated to write blogs. What's up with that?
The lady over the road was just looking at me sat at my desk. Strange curtain-twitching person, she is. This town is like that though, everyone is in everyone else's pockets, of course it's not crowded or anything negative like that, everyone just knows everyone's business.
My brother once compared this town to Midsummer, I didn't sleep for a week after. I thought every noise was an apparently frail, helpless little old lady bound to crack open my head with a Le Creuset cast iron skillet then butcher me and feed my flesh to her cats. Yes, it is a rather vivid imagination I have isn't it?
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