Strange title, that much is true, but it seems that since my last confession, this is all I’ve achieved.
Participants and acolytes of the scribbling craft set themselves targets, decide upon numbers of words to be written, and the time allocated in which to achieve it.
Many will claim to have hit these targets, to have written tens of thousands of words, to have dug drainage ditches, manned a food bank for the poor and deserving, and indeed many will also have learnt to play the cello.
Me, I’m sporting a new haircut, and wearing a metaphorically uncomfortable and itchy shirt as penance for my lack of discernible output.
It’s not that I haven’t been trying, and we all love a good tryer, it’s just that my efforts have borne little or no fruit.
I’ve tried to hide behind the ever popular “I’m editing” as some sort of defence – and to be fair it works up to a point, but only up to a point.
So, in my defence I have rewritten a passage here, a phrase there, and added a few new ones at the end of the current scribbles, but I know its not enough, not something I could proudly stick on the fridge next to my potato print paintings.
I have sat down, fingers curled poised to pounce, hot tea within easy reach, and written practically nothing.
And today I’m looking at my lack of progress, debating the wearing a hairshirt and considering flagellation (both scouring, and shirt are obvious metaphors).
Although, truth be told, I’ll probably just go for another cup of tea and browse social media for another hour or so!
Perchance that is the problem…
Stay safe – remain sane!