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Week 31 was a strike-filled funfair

I don’t quite know what this week was. It had so many swings and roundabouts that it felt like being at a funfair where some of the rides were pleasant, while others were most definitely not. I seemed to get in a slump this week. One of feeling sorry for myself and questioning if it was all worth it. It’s not an unusual feeling, as I think self-doubt is commonplace with writing, but it was harder than normal to shake off.

I think part of it is to do with being tired. My brain feels drained of all creativity and the dry patch has arrived, a state of mind I don’t deal with well. I like being busy, I like when my mind is churning, but most of all I like when the words come. It isn’t writers block, but more mind freeze as if my brain cells are on strike and I don’t know what will get them back.

On the other hand a night out on Friday with good food and company brought me back a bit. I somehow snapped out of the doldrums and my cells reassembled to let me figure out what I needed and what the next steps were. (Isn’t it funny how sometimes other people know what you need better than you do?!) I know that last week I seemed to have it all in hand and decided to concentrate on a short story collection, but my mind is pulling me back to the novel. The one full of pencil marks and crosses that terrifies the crap out of me.

So 31 was a bit painful. A bit like my own 31st when I realised that I was no longer 30 and in the throngs of the third decade of my life with not a lot going on. This was before embarking on writing and being stuck in a job I pretty much well… hated. I am not a fan of birthdays, never have been despite having no horror stories to tell. So I am hoping 32 gets better or at least sees my brain cells on a partial strike rather than the whole shebang. All I can do is keep going…