Ok, so I sat down to write the other night. Great, I thought, nice and quiet. Put my music on, great playlist of songs which should induce an inspirational haze of motivation.
And then the doorbell goes.
It seems there are never enough hours in the day to write. It's a time consuming hobby that is punctuated by long, deathly periods of procrastination. Answering the door and finding a hundred reasons to keep my houseguest imprisoned in my living room with a cup of tea is only one method to avoid the keyboard.
There is nothing worse that writer's block. Nothing better than getting into your groove and letting the characters flow onto the page.
But, without question, I was blocked. Staring at the computer screen till your eyeballs liquefy, nose flattened against the plasma glow, fingernails scraping the underside of the table.
Hours. I can spend hours in this position. Glumly coercing my reluctant brain into a spectacular burst of brilliance.
But, like a rare creature in sub-Saharan Africa, plots elude me. Need chocolate. Need caffeine. Buzzing off the walls! Too distracted to write, to think, need to bounce around like a crazy thing! Ha ha!
Slump.
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