Ad Infinitum

I've found myself staring at the wallpaper for this laptop for about twenty minutes. I've found myself back into the doldrums of that most hated beast, one that has crawled on suckered appendages straight from the devil's asshole and is getting fang marks all over the furniture:

Writer's Block.

Ideas are everywhere, when you know where to look for them – I've quite a few of my own too, but I'm damned if there's anything I can do to get them down on paper. I have always imagined this phenomena as a cluster of shoppers waiting from Tesco's to open. The doors are locked, and very small, but they all crowd around and bang on the glass, their forms misted and obscured. Muffled snatches of impatient shouting meet the ears of the staff inside, who behind their barricade of deli counter are met with discordant cries of vague idea-ettes, too small and malformed to be of any use and are discarded as mad ravings.

If you have ever had the misfortune of being near a supermarket before it opens, it is generally the case that the people that are at the front are the ones who squirmed their way through by biting, gouging and generally smelling damned unpleasant. The rat-faced, neck tattooed floaters of ideas of Hey, I should write a novel about a guy who finds a thing! And what if that character was actually DEAD ALL ALONG (that's never been done before!) are first to squeeze their Lynx Africa and not-showered-in-two-weeks Adidas tracksuit through the doors and all over the laptop screen. These ideas are looked at, and then discarded with a disgusted hitch of the lip.

The ideas that I would like to enter and start browsing the shelves are at the back. Theological Dependence and Psychological Ramifications of Immortality are still stood in the car park, far too polite to push their way through. The sun tracks its way across the sky whilst what if he was gay? Yeah, great!, What if, like, the church is like, a metaphor? And I think one of the characters should die unexpectedly! All get their greasy fingers over the pastries, and before they know it, the store closes without them ever getting inside.

So I must sit here and write about the only thing that I can think of, which is the one thing that doesn't allow any decent ideas. Writer's, bastard, Block. By writing some hackneyed trash relating to supermarkets and chavs, I exorcise the demon that sits in my skull and sprays shit down my frontal lobe bit by bit. I feel it now, writhing about in there, pulling apart synapses and controlling my brain like Ophiocordyceps Unilateralis (one of the most satisfying parasitic fungi to say – just say it. Out loud. You'll be glad you did), but rather than me leaving my colony and seeking sunlight about about a foot off the ground it forces me to type out half a sentence, look at it for ten minutes, delete it, get assy at myself, resent the success of others and try again.

Oh. You may have noticed that all the other posts have disappeared. In a transparent effort to get further up search engines I will be throwing some older posts from a few years back in with new stuff that I'm doing so I can actually stand to a regular update schedule, but with none of the actual effort that people who are actually good at this utilise. I will actually try and post about things other than what a complete shit I am as well – cooking, biking, drawing, D&D and novel writing? Those things. Yes.

So happy new year. Here's hoping it's less rain and more Gin Ocean than last year for all of us.