Sunday Blues

I’m here writing like I’m not allowed to stop. But that’s okay. Not a bother. Because I don’t want to stop, see? That’s not how I write good stuff. Stopping. Nah, fuck that. The best stuff comes when I open the latch. 

Sounds weird right? What latch? The one in my mind. Behind it is a lot of words and ideas. Sometimes they are shite. Then, I realise they’re not. My assessment of them is off. Yeah. That’s what happens. An idea is an idea. Not shite. Not great. It’s what I do with it that matters. Brill, when I first realised that? It was like drinking my first morning coffee. 

Something fired in my brain. It was fucking great. Let the bugger out. Whatever it is. Might be shite-sounding. But that’s not for me to say at that point. No way. Let the thing come out. I wrote a whole novel from one idea. Yep. Day one? No novel. Twenty days later? 90,000 words of a novel. Fuck. I looked at it saying: who wrote that? Oh yeah, me. 

That’s it. I’m sitting here on a Sunday evening. My ears are still bollocksed. Wait, I didn’t mention that, did I? Yeah. Blocked ears. I get it a lot. Went to see an Audiologist today. I’ll spare you the horror. But I have to go back again next week. Two goes to get rid of what’s in there. Meaning my hearing will be fuzzy for another week. Great.

Fine. As long as my mind isn’t. There’s writing to do.