Being Michael Gove’s Cat

“That famous writer’s block is a myth as far as I’m concerned. I think bad writers must have a great difficulty writing. … They have become writers out of reasons of ambition. It must be a great strain to them to make marks on a page when they really have nothing much to say, and don’t enjoy doing it.”

Words from the mouth, or pen (or maybe even both) of late US writer and political commentator Gore Vidal. His polemic pouring scorn on the existence of an affliction rendering an author literarily impotent.

This morning, as a blank white paper glared back at me while bereft of epiphany or comment, Vidal’s saying tarried my neurological corridors. With my conscious mind minus notions with which to deflower the chaste pages I wondered if, as the American opined, this creative sparsity made me a bad writer.

I concluded, though, that being momentarily bereft of a light bulb moment doesn’t turn me into a worse writer anymore than having epiphanies aplenty makes me any better at the craft.

As much as I respect Gore Vidal’s enlightening advocacies, surely an author’s stock is measured on his/her idea’s creativity and delivery. Quality not quantity; as the East Wardley Quality Not Quantity Society oft proffer.

From a personal perspective I’m never overly worried if I do get writer’s block, which as far as I’m concerned does exist. My lack of angst borne from the knowledge somewhere down the line (maybe in half an hour, or half a day) a creative spark will furnish me with sufficient notions to structure my daily prose.

I’m experienced enough now at this penmanship malarkey to know not to panic if experiencing creative impotency. Instead, one must remain pragmatic and sufficiently motivated to formulate innovative ingredients into insightful paragraphs when they finally arrive.

My focus to ensure whatever epiphanies are forthcoming get moulded into monologues which grip the reader, or at the very least counter against disinterest induced by tepid literary fare. GJ Strachan’s mission that of producing essays which prove interesting, entertaining and many of other things ending with ‘ing’.

I’m sensible enough to realise there’ll be a peaks and troughs in my outputs quality. However, as I publish the blogs without seeking financial recompense from the reader, there’s no great pressure on me to produce work of professional standard regardless.

Who knows, maybe I’m struggling for a ‘light bulb moment’ after suffering a bad night slumber wise. My sleep deprivation a consequence of a nightmare in which I died and was re-incarnated as Tory MP Michael Gove’s cat. I’ve no wish to elaborate greatly on the dream; other than to say if Gove ever makes you a sandwich ensure he washes his hands first!!

This night vision raising my angst levels to a plateau I’ve been keen to avoid since a recent cardiac scare. As a boon to my heart health, though, at least Gove’s lack of hygiene’s put me off margarine for the foreseeable future.

After my death in the dream, and prior to my feline re-incarnation, I was held for around half an hour in a celestial waiting station where I was processed. Here I received a cat collar with the name Tiddles neatly etched upon its circular metal tag.

I’m unsure whether the tags words were to inform my new owner of my reincarnated name, or just warning them I’d a dicky bladder. Additionally, I was offered a trilby to wear with holes cut out for my ears, however I decline this millinery on the grounds no self-respecting moggy wants to be seen wandering around in a hat. Especially one with sleeves!

Being Michael Gove’s cat gave me a rare insight into the erratic behaviour of a Tory cabinet minister. My eavesdropping of Gove’s phone calls to hiss colleagues enlightening me to news that in April the government intend to introduce a tax levy on any member of the public who misspells Llandudno…… Additionally, plans are afoot legislating that anybody who plays a trombone on the sabbath will be forced to wear lederhosen for a fortnight.

Yours truly woke from this disturbing slumber in a cold sweat; promptly coughed up a fur ball, prior to curling up in a ball beside the fire….. Miaow!

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