Isn't it wonderful the way life contrives to stand in the way of writing? If you are anything like me then half the time you can't write for reasons of paralysis. I've had long periods when my confidence has been so low I can't even look the laptop in the eye. Apart, that is, from the usual displacement activities of checking emails, facebook, writing sites, etc. At those times I have an almost visceral revulsion at the thought of sitting down to write, and I would welcome any excuse not to do so. This is accompanied by pounding sensations of guilt. Strange, isn't it, that an activity that we don't have to do, and that hardly anyone cares if we do, causes such oppressive guilt when we don't. Usually those periods of gloom have followed a series of rejections in my case. But that isn't how I feel today.
I've had a reasonable share of encouragement recently, with pieces published or doing okay in competitions. Enough scraps of endorsement to keep me going. My confidence is in the greenish amber zone at the moment, maybe even in the green much of the time. So I'm chucking out the words? Racing to the writing desk? Filled with inspiration? Well, not really. Just when you get your fragile mental state together life comes along. Recently it has been family disasters. Illnesses and other problems that I won't go into here but which stopped me in my writing tracks. It seems that there is always something to climb over to reach the writing desk. As well as the personal stuff, work has picked up. It's nice to be earning some cash, but working twelve hour days in Frankfurt with virtually no breaks doesn't leave you full of energy to dash out a short story or a sonnet at bedtime. And now that things are finally settling down again on the family front, and I have the prospect of a couple of weeks away from real work, there's Christmas. Bah humbug!