With a newly built library in the vicinity, I was flowing over with anticipation of having a quiet spot to write, think and generally be an all round literary genius. Maybe scratch the last part of that sentence. Still, having found myself a corner, with a large window where I can view the world passing by me, I still can’t seem to get the words to flow. Conditions are perfect: Almost complete silence; comfort, humans around me who are also keen to partake in the wonder that is a library, yet I still find myself floundering.
It is not as if I have writers block. Far from it. The ideas are there, they are fresh and unique as they should be, but I am still finding it difficult to string the words together. Far be it from me to ever think that writing a story should be anything other than ‘simple’, yet somehow its difficulty is in sharp contrast to other times I have found myself slouched over my beloved Mac.
This is not a bitchy post. Let’s view more as a statement of fact. It is annoying to say the least, but I am not dry of inspiration. I’m just crossing my fingers, gritting my teeth and getting the words down as best I can. Perhaps this is the beauty of editing. A chance to come back and destroy the lazy words without destroying the idea.