writer’s block… another chapter in ‘how not to be a writer…’

Usually Sam could lose herself in the characters of her novels. In fact if she’d ever thought about, it she‘d have realised that was precisely why she wrote.

Her characters were young, sexy and adventurous. She liked them – she liked being among them. She joined in with their adventures as she wrote- she laughed with them, loved them, slept with them and worried about them all.

Lately she had started to feel more like their mother watching them get into scrapes and unable to do anything about it. That depressed her. What had changed she kept asking herself

 This time something was wrong, seriously wrong, she just couldn’t seem to get inside the skin of her leading lady and the young devilishly handsome rake in the computer section of the office.

 It wasn’t that she hadn’t done her research – a while ago she had temped for a big firm of marketing specialists for three months. It had been fine, as well as earning some much needed money – she had gone clubbing with the young ones on Saturday nights; had after work drinks to the Campari Bar with the designers from the second floor – gone to the Races with the MDs  secretary and her crowd of friends; and had slept with a salesman.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t have any ideas, actually she didn’t know how the story would end, but that was usual – the characters developed as the story went along and the ending would often come about half through or even three quarters and then she would know in a flash what was going to happen.

 Writers block!

After cleaning the flat from top to bottom, even going so far as to wipe the dreadful blinds, emailing her mother and a few ex boyfriends, half a bottle of chardonnay, fish, chips and mushy peas, Sam decided that was it –  she couldn’t write another word.


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