I’ve stalled. No, it seems worse: I’ve done the Capital W writer’s equivalent of not realising the car was running on fumes, only for it to die suddenly, forcing me to pull into a bus lane to await a sympathetic father with a jerry can and some words of advice.
Or, in more plain terms, I’ve reached that point where I’m not writing. I would say that to compensate, I’m reading loads, but beyond enjoying the new issue of The Rialto and David Tait’s pamphlet, Love’s Loose Ends, I’m not reading anything.
Obviously this is natural and will invariably sort itself out.
That’s what I hope. It’s been a year since seminars for my Creative Writing Masters finished. It’s tough to remain critical when so few situations arise in which to do so. I did actually lie before, though: I have written three new poems this month. Two of them were genuine newies, the other was an old one which I’ve cannibalised (heavily edited, butchered parts from other poems and grafted them into this one, generally made better by removal of confounding metaphors such as this, etc.) I’ll debut them at Trashed Organ in July, an event which always inspires so much that I sit on the Metro home, half-cut, scribbling ardently into my journal.
This is another one of those blogs which resembles the chaotic structure of my head. Sorry. I’m currently waiting on return correspondence from four non-specific writing organisations; a time of limbo which is bad enough when only waiting on one reply, which is now four times more limbo-ish and, inevitably, a large part of the reason I feel unable to move forward in my writing. God, this is cryptic isn’t it?
There will be news shortly, people. (Wherein ‘people’ denotes my future self, laughing at this for the sake of posterity in approximately one month.)