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Revving Up.

I've got to break through the fug of my current mindset to get my comedy-writing mojo back.
My ideas pad (mostly full of bus times and general admin).
It's hard to find the energy or will to write at the best of times when procrastination looms & lurks like a loom-lurker, without the current circumstances ramping my lethargy up a gear. It's not that my sense of humour's gone, though I now need dowsing rods to detect a joke. And even when I find one, my bastardly depressive mind kicks in to scupper it: "What's the point, David? No-one will pay you for this."

When Glyn and I started renting an office six years ago, I'd get into the routine of going down there first-thing to work. But before long, I'd be swamped with admin of running a comedy club without the joy of something creatively worthwhile to offset it; at least when I was writing a show I had a place to run it - albeit a tiny one - though, in time it became another isolation booth.

(Thankfully, we've since moved to bigger premises, though I'm not sure what for; see: 'depressive').

Now, nothing sparks inspiration like a deadline, or so the cliché goes (albeit with different wording) and in theory, I've got still one in the Edinburgh Fringe, though the likelihood it will go ahead seems slim (vanishing like my two, cheeky little faux-deadlines of Bath & Brighton before it). And the combined fallout of losing my dad and pulling last year's show has zapped my momentum to reveal a shitstorm of unresolved family trauma to boot (no joke). And now, I need to pick myself up, with one eye firmly fixed on getting my career back on track and the other on how to find an inordinate amount of money to secure a house for my family - my dad's house, no less - from a relative you'd hope would be happy to help me, without plunging me back into debt.
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