An Hour Of Writer’s Block

(…not that I keep track of things like this)

I’ve been sat in a coffee shop trying to write this post for an hour now; not this particular ‘I can’t write this post for shit’ post, but a variety of ideas involving tips on saving money, and the annoying reality that friendship groups tend to resemble families from Game Of Thrones: they all hate each other with a passion and for no real reason, and trying to bridge even one of those gaps will result in you and your direwolf being killed at an uncle’s wedding or something like that.

And I think this is a record for trying, and failing, to get a post started; because I write these every day, I go through a lot of loafing around trying to come up with ideas, or banging my head into a concrete pillar because I can’t be bothered to write an intelligent post today, but yesterday’s was about underwear or something so I should be more meaningful today, but that’s hard and I’ve not eaten in twelve hours or slept in twenty, etc., etc..

Normally I’ll give up on an idea after five minutes of said head-banging, and go for a walk or eat some toast or something, and give the writing thing another go later; but this time, I’ve sat here in the same place for an hour, completely ineffectually, for the most part producing something of as much literary value as the non-verbal sounds of two pigs having the kind of sex that makes your romantic life seem depressing and unfulfilled by comparison. It might have had something to do with the fact that I’ve been sitting here with a friend, and so can’t really up-sticks and piss off to marathon YuGiOh Abridged again, and maybe because I’ve not slept for 26 hours at this point, so I’m not in full possession of my senses (the perfect time to write something for the Internet to read), but I do feel a kind of pride at having tried and failed for so long, before sucking it up and producing something that I could have made in half the time and with far fewer spelling mistakes if only I’d taken a break in the middle.

I’m often congratulating myself for stupid things like this, pointless streaks and achievements of some insane difficulty that ends up not helping me in any way, shape or form: some weeks I do sports five nights a week, which gives me a great sense of achievement, but I’m simultaneously the worst at karate in my group, make a mistake leading to a goal in every handball game I play, and still can’t throw for shit in dodgeball – even if I did two of these I’d probably get much better at both of them. Then look at this blog itself, which unashamedly and intentionally sacrifices intelligence for relentless updating, which is something more public than any of the other pointlessly amusing streaks I’m involved in.

I suppose there’s something inherently satisfying about doing things of quantity like this; everyone will have a different judgement of the value of the things you’ve done, but they can’t really argue with the fact that you’ve done x things in y days; it offers security, if nothing else. And I don’t seriously imagine myself as some great writer; it feels much more realistic to imagine myself as a great vomiter-up of posts, and overcomer of painfully drawn-out and annoying periods of writer’s block. Whether I overcome said block effectively is a decision we’ll never agree on, but at least I got over it, and wrote something today.

That last sentence could be the title of this blog, actually.

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