I’ve never been a great one for pretending that writing is easy or difficult. The truth is that some stories come easily and other stories take a little more cajoling to get onto the page. Sometimes it’s easy to address this with meticulous plotting and note-taking in preparation. And sometimes these activities are the exact thing that will kill the creativity of an idea. What’s the point of writing a story when you know how it’s going to end?
But, in recent months, I’ve found a new problem with writing that makes every word a struggle. It doesn’t so much sap creativity as place a barrier to getting the words on the page.
This is Oswald’s current favourite sleeping place.
As you can see, he’s across my lap, chin resting on my right arm, with his fat backside nestled down by my left leg. Is this a comfortable position? Not particularly. I now walk with a limp. Is this conducive to improved writing? Not particularly: my words-per-second has dropped considerably. Am I going to change this? No. The spoilt little shit seems comfortable, so I’m just going to be a lot slower with my output.
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