Today I want to crawl under my doona and hide there for a while. Today being a writer is not such a good idea. It does not make me burst into Katrinia and The Waves’s “I’m walking on sunshine” nor does it make me grin widely, fangs on show. I hunch over my computer and type. Who for? Me? Because my tutor told me to?
Probably the later, but also because I feel so guilty. There’s this creative beast in me. We’re sometimes friends. I feed it books and bits of marvellous things people say and sometimes I feel wonderful because we get one another. But sometimes I kind of hate that beast, that voice. I want to smother it under a pillow or do an Edgar Allan Poe and build a brick wall around it with no way out.. That way I can go out, click-clack my heels in the night forever and forget that allusive ambition of writing.
The beast makes me work. Won’t let me rest because there’s a thousand and one things that we can do together. But if I write it is quiet, satisfied as if is nodding – at least you’re trying and that’s a start.
And now for something completely different!