I am supposed to write. Especially on those days that I spend doing nothing except catching up on re-runs of Jerry Springer and two and a half men (earlier Charlie Sheen series only) but nothing happens. I have writers block.

writers blockThe dusting and the vacuuming can wait because it will only be dirty again tomorrow and they never were my favourite tasks anyway so I ignore them. I know the block is in my head and no place else.

It’s a weird transition. That time between leaving work and taking up the position of paid writer. Actually making the move into being paid is the biggest hurdle and plays a huge part in my writers block I fell although that could just be me making excuses…again.

Life drifts by one slow day after another and nothing gets written but at least I know what happened to the long lost sister of the catholic priest who found his best friend’s cousin in bed with the gardener. At least I am up to date with how many times he cheated on his wife with her sister and at least I have a fair idea what’s about to happen with Charlie and Chelsea. I do feel sorry for Alan, at least I take comfort in the fact that someone’s life is more of a disaster than mine right now. Not that I want to appear dramatic you understand.

The ironing gets done and so does the washing up. I have munched my way through a packet of chocolate chip cookies and drank six cups of coffee (the 12 spoons of sugar kick in and I feel quite high) all before lunch. This can be a frustrating life.



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