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The Awful Author.


Writing a blog is a bit of an up-down procedure, or to put it differently, a frequent teeter around the edge of a rut.

Right now, I’m not so much teetering as standing dead-centre, clawing at the edge with my weak fingers, desperate to pull myself out (like a spider who’d escape his bath prison if he could just get purchase on the enamel). Put simply, I’ve written little of worth for weeks, with no hope of a positive spike in my day-to-day life to give me something good to talk about.

This is partly due to with a few family issues that are taking up more time than usual, and partly to do with the fact I frequently don’t start writing until bedtime, when I’m too tired to get down anything coherent; more often than no, I'll struggle to extract a few paragraphs from my subconscious to look them over the next day to find I’ve written a load of shit; I then do my best to edit them to little improvement

This is what comes from writing so frequently: your quality control suffers from time to time. The creative process sometimes feels like channeling an inner voice without effort, then other times resembles pulling teeth. At the moment, I’m more a dentist than a man with a muse; I hope things get better soon as right now my words are wasting valuable internet space.
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