Block; Writer's

She sits at the computer. There is a distracting line down the left hand side of the screen that she thinks must mean the laptop's screen is on the way out. With her fingers resting lightly on the keys she imagines typing something, something good, words that are heavy with meaning. Words that will sear into the brain of whoever read them. Like Kafka wrote, words like an axe.

Outside the day is grey and the skies are full of those dull high clouds without even the hint of rain. She likes sunny days and she likes rain, but these blank empty skies frustrate her. She remembers, vaguely, her English teacher in high school talking about how the romantic poets used to think nature reflected their inward state.

If I were a cloudy sky, she thinks, I would be this sort of cloudy sky.

She wishes she could write something that wasn't self-indulgent. That seems to be the word she attaches to herself most often. Some days when she lies in bed and can't quite manage to push the blankets off and get up, not for a little while anyway, she tells herself she is being self-indulgent. Things aren't so bad, really. When she thinks this she summons up a mental image of starving children in Africa. Of flies in the corner of their eyes. Mostly this just makes her feel guilty, which in turn tends to feed into the greyness inside. The blank grey clouds inside, and outside.

Sometimes she wishes she felt at least a little bit bad, rather than just very tired and small. Because if she felt bad, maybe then she wouldn't feel so self-indulgent about not feeling good.

She types her name then erases it. Nothing is coming. There are things to be written, but she won't be the one to write them. At least not today.

With apologies to Thirdcat.

Comments

[Jennifer C]

The sky seemed open and honest to me today. The electricity went out in Cannington. Have you ever tried picking on something that your own superego makes you do and doing the opposite to that, just to destroy the power of the superego? It can be quite rejuvenating to try this. Why not donate some of your meagre pay to the children of Africa? I can put you in touch with a few. Do you know that Dambudzo Marechera, the esteemed Zimbabwean writer, slept under branches and was rained on in Trafulgar Square whilst he was waiting for a payment from Heinemann to come in? It makes you wonder what it means to live close to the edge, and what this can do for your creative juices.

[TimT]

I like clouds, but I suppose some of them (or too many of them for too long) can be depressing. Also, I'm a winter person.

On the happy side, I like the new blog format!

[katec]

sounds like my thesis writing days...

I find it's sort of better if I get up and do out of the house things first thing, so that it feels like the day has begun, and then come home to work.

My partner finds the opposite. He gets up and works, then takes a break for a shower, goes to the shops, takes a walk around the park and then works some more.

Either way, getting out of bed on cold mornings is the hard part.