So I started this thing how many weeks ago? And I've posted how many entries? Exactly. But well, y'know, I've sorta been writing them in my head. I write a lot that way. Especially in the shower. Or when I'm cooking. Someone needs to invent a showerproof and greaseproof laptop. I don't know why I am unable to write. Yesterday - or the day before, I wrote a very long and rambling email to my clients re the work I do for them. It was silly and probably defeated it's purpose being as it was to get people to decide what merchandise to purchase and to re-book my classes for January and being that they had to scroll down acres of my mindless regurgitation before getting to the salient points. But some of them liked it. Should I post it??
You see, now I'm writing this, with precisely no one in mind to read it. Maybe that's what I need to do. Maybe just write for myself as if no one's going to read it. Maybe that will allow me the freedom I need. But as I write this, I am experiencing self-loathing, disgust at the ugly vanity displayed by my ego at even considering that anyone would want to read anything I have to say. Especially as, right now, it appears I have nothing to say.
I can see that I'm going to drive myself mad in this vein fairly regularly. I need to keep at this though. I actually thought of a plot yesterday (of the novel variety). I talked it over briefly with MF (for whom I need to think of another pseudonym because MF sounds like something very very rude which did not occur to me when I first came up with it but which made me cry with laughter after he pointed it out to me).
Anyway, actually I'm not reporting all progress. I am upstairs now having kissed Mini-Me (8) goodnight after watching half an hour of Mariella Frostrup on Sky Arts' The Book Show. I have to watch that programme regularly. Maybe it will be the catalyst (read rocket up arse) that I need to start writing my oevre. Also, Mariella Frostrup is so clever and attractive, with her nail file voice, and silky tan blouse, her golden light shines over drab plebs in the audience at whichever literary festival she's at. She interviews Salman, taking care to stress the correct syllable of his name and playfully chides gap toothed whassername who writes all the horsey romps about having a romantic lead who is nearing 70 and should be looking after her grandchildren. See, I've just seen it and I can't remember whom I'm talking about. Thats the problem. No memory. No tenacity. Just laziness. I mean, who else is going to attempt to pass off watching half a tv programme as progress in novel writing. Especially when attention wanders to what I would look like if I cut my hair in a bob like Mariella. And whether I could get away with wearing a bow fronted blouse like Mariella. Instead of concentrating on useful stuff like what Jilly Cooper (THAT'S IT) has to say about the perfect male romantic character.
Y'know those slot machines where you stick coins in and they fall onto a shelf which moves back and forth against an arm seemingly pushing the coins off the end of the shelf? I am one of those coins. Ostensibly being pushed by external forces and environmental shape changes... gradually... slowly... towards... the... cliff, where it will ultimately have to slip...
...off (not leap bravely) into writerdom. Ostensibly. But not actually. In truth, it is stationary. Pressured, pushed, yet going nowhere.
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