Recently, I’ve found my enthusiasm for writing these daily narratives has been on the wane. Consequently, the whole process is taking significantly longer than usual and ideas that ordinarily flow plentifully are currently of a premium. A fact not helped with the creative flow being diminished by having to pen the pieces in broken segments throughout the day. The result of more pressing issues on my ‘to do list’.
An acquaintance suggested taking a break from writing in an attempt to re-ignite my literary appetite. But I’m not inclined to accept the prejudged offerings on my penmanship from Greg Arthurton, chairman of the Stop Writing Arbitrary Blogs Strachan (SWABS) group.
SWABS an organisation set up to undermine my creative self belief in the wake of my controversial piece on depression titled Black Dog Day, Afternoon… And Evening.. A narrative leading to the receipt of hate mail. not to mention several disturbing phone calls where, in unconvincing Asian accents, members tried to engage me in conversation with a view to selling me a timeshare break in Wales.
Thankfully, the mail and calls have more or less abated now, so sitting here tapping away on my laptop in my holiday apartment in Llandudno, I do so with far less angst than a week or so back.
That being said, in further moves designed to shatter my literary self-confidence, the Stop Writing Arbitrary Blogs Strachan organisation recently attempted to diminish my readership numbers by blackening my name. Thankfully, though, my audience don’t seem unduly worried by news I stole half of my brother Ian’s chocolate orange on Christmas Day 1976.
Hopefully, I can survive unscathed from SWABS’s completely unwarranted hate campaign. Something that’s aided by the iniquitous organisation having anything too serious about my character to lose me readers…… Well, apart from the blogs themselves!
Mercifully, my literary audience are oblivious to other more serious acts of larceny on my rap sheet. As I’d be surprised if anyone would be so lenient on me when hearing I ate our kid’s Cadbury’s chocolate Easter egg in 1978…… Oh damn, I’ve said too much!
Ironically, I’m actually powering through this monologue in which I earlier complained of recent struggles acquiring inventive ideas. Thus far, in just over an hour, I’ve written around 380 words of the daily minimum of 500 I set myself, which historically is a decent enough pace.
My itinerary for the weekend currently bears the paucity of my wife’s parents humanity. That domain a vast area of emptiness, only defiled by occasional appearances of tumbleweed and sporadic visits from a roaming band of Sofian rapscallions.
That being said, with dark clouds and precipitation are our scheduled weekend guests, being bereft of outdoor plans maybe isn’t such a ‘show stopper’.
Consequently, when I drag my middle-aged posterior*** out of bed tomorrow it’s highly likely I’ll be undertaking chores around the home. Tasks aggressively delegated by my missus Karen****, such as cleaning the oven, along with sanitising kitchen benches and cupboards…….. Bloody hell, I hope the weather forecast is incorrect!!
*** – To clarify, yours truly’s posterior isn’t the only part of my body that’s middle-aged. That accolade also goes to every other bodily section , apart from the massive foam middle finger I recently had transplanted onto my left hand. A strategy to allow more confrontational gesticulations during times of extreme road rage.
**** – Karen denies employing an aggressive tone when communicating chores with which she’d like assistance. However, I’m not alluding to her vocal manner, moreover her physically violent act of twisting my testicles with a pair of pliers until I agree to ‘volunteer’ for the task.