Words fail me 2 - The revenge

The words are back and - what do you know? - they're full of energy.

Jumping up and down on the mattress at all hours of the night. Tugging at my sleeve during mealtimes. Springing out from behind trees and bushes when I'm walking the dog. They're running me ragged.

And they won't queue and wait their turn. Oh no. They all have to be heard and they have to be heard now. Novel, play, short story, blog. They all want a piece of me, and, in the words of Star Trek's Scotty, 'I cannae hold her much longer, Captain. She's gonna blow.'

I'm doing my best. Scribbling them down as soon as I can, wherever I can. The backs of shopping lists, the white spaces on takeaway menus.  

Of course, serious writers carry little notepads with them, in their bags and pockets and car glove compartments. And when serious writers wake up at 3am with a killer opening sentence, there, right next to them on the pillow, is a fresh supply of writing paper and pens that work and sharpened pencils. Or that's what the words keep telling me.

But I've got a plan to quieten the little blighters down.

I'm going to give them a competition deadline.

Then we'll see who's up first in the morning. 

Words fail me

Yes, it's happened before.

Yes, alright, it's happened many times before, but this time it's different. This time it's serious. No, honestly. It really is.

I know what you're thinking. I've tried harder. For days I've had my 'trying really hard' face on. Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

And, before you say it, it's got nothing to do with my inner critic. I missed my last blog post because it was a Bank Holiday. I was having a day off, right? I'm not that fragile.

'It's a blip'? That's what you said last time. Okay, so maybe last time you were right. But this time it really IS different.

'Give it time'? Don't make me laugh. I've given it time. I've given it space. What more do those jumped-up, egocentric words want? A weekend at a luxury spa resort? A month in the Maldives?

Alright. If you insist. I'll give them one more chance. 24 hours. No, let's make it 48, I'm feeling generous. If the words aren't back knocking on my door, bright and breezy and ready for work by this time on Wednesday, it's over.

And I mean it. This time.