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Writer’s Block

I don’t think I’ve ever had it, unless you count the years and years and years where I never wrote a thing… Then one night, most unexpectedly, there it was on a notepad in Battersea. Long since lost, thank goodness.

I am aware though, since returning home, of a weight pressing on me; one that numbs the fingers and makes the words shuffle past, all flat-footed and ungainly. I think there are a number of problems. One is, despite it being long enough already, it is too soon. Another is that it is not soon enough. I am caught somewhere in the middle of that tension between extremes. Other reasons: I have been tired, I have not found a voice, I feel uncertain of how to proceed, I am not up to the job.

Still, I have said to myself, none of that can be helped and however you feel about it, or yourself, there is a story demanding to be told and to that end I have begun the slow tap, tap, tap… It feels like I am doing this whilst lying in a sealed lead box with ever-decreasing oxygen supply, but so be it.

That is what this blog post is. The tap, tap, tap from inside the lead box. There is no story, no picture, no insight or uplifting point to be made. There just is. And so on and so on. One hopes.