The curse of writers block

I’ve been in and out of hospital.

Seen more syringes and cotton balls than a tattoo parlor.

Doctors still have difficulty when knowing what they are supposed to be talking about.

Nurses still freak me out with their cheery disposition. “Just hold still now dearie, it will only hurt a second.”

It’s hurts for much longer of course.

I’ve been home for two weeks now. Granted most of the time I’ve been heavily drugged or I’m awake long enough to eat or bath. I’ve been out for the other kind of torture known as physiotherapy. Another form of experimental – how to waste your money in 30 days and cause permanent damage in the process.

My husband doesn’t think I’m funny. I’m not trying to be either. It bloody hurts. It hurts to sit and walk and stand for longer than 15 minutes.

I digress.

In all the time I’ve been awake, I’ve been thinking about An Office Affair. The novel which is really all I think about when I’m thinking. It’s about a young woman and a young married man meeting in an office and starting an affair. Jeff Goins is going to murder me.

No, really the book was partially a true story which was written and completed as a short story 7 years ago. I’ve decided to turn the short story into a novel but I’m stuck. I’m experiencing the first vile form of writers block. The worst I’ve seen in the 10 years since I first picked up a pencil and penned Closer, a novel by Cindy Pascolene and then a year later – Patience the sequel by Cindy Pascolene. I was at school so I had all kinds of fans and groupies. Reading and giving their opinion on the characters of Josh and Sydney’s world. What a fun and challenging world they made together. Those two books just happened. Flowed from the pencil onto the paper and then onto the computer screen all afternoon long after school was done and I was supposed to be doing my homework.

Now I struggle to string a chapter together that has that same ease. It’s only when I have been typing and realise an hour has gone by without my notice that I’m satisfied with what I’ve written. When I’m constantly looking at the watch and my word count I wonder with dismay what has happened to the  book that was burning to get out. What on earth have I done with it.

After all I think, I deserve to know how will it end? Will she end up running off with him or will she get married and settle down in suburbia?


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