Grass is always greener

First day of the Christmas holidays. Thought I would be really productive today and get some writing done early. Unfortunately, it’s not happening.

One of my creative writing tutor’s once told me that the way she wrote her book was to simply ‘turn up’ each day. My problem is that I turn up, then give up. Sometimes what I write seems so turgid that my fingers feel as heavy as lead. Like today. It feels pointless continuing. With every terrible sentence I feel like I’m committing some kind of literary sin by giving them space to exist.

Today is one of those days where I doubt I am a writer at all. Like somehow I’ve managed to fluke it thus far and now the truth is catching up. Why does my imagination taunt me with ideas, then abandon me once I hit the keyboard? Urrghhh.

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