Daybook: 12 March 2019

I have been struggling with the writing thing for weeks now. How can I be a writer (for a living) and want to write (for love) – and yet resist writing? It’s like pulling teeth to engage with the poem or short story that is on my worktable at any time.

I feel as though I am doing my degree homework, with no-one to give me a mark, or responding to a client brief I won’t get paid for. So inevitably, I now approach every ‘writing hour’ with this toxic backstory, with fear and loathing. Having dragged myself to the desk, whipped myself into some kind of enthusiasm, got a glass of wine and some nibbles lined up – I start surfing the internet.

God. I bet Hemingway didn’t have to go through this pain barrier every damn time he sat down (no, stood up) to write. Maybe my props are wrong. Maybe I need a bottle of hard liquor and an ashtray full of stubs. Oh and one of those muscular metal typewriters where I can smash away at the keys in a creative frenzy…


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