It has been too long, far too long since I made any real progress with my writing.

I’ve more plasters than Elastoplast, more excuses than a lying politician.

I’ve dabbled.

I’ve looked.

I’ve written the odd word, tidied the odd phrase – but in real terms I’ve added no discernible progress.

Amy is in Peshawar waiting for me to write the next page, and Rose is still sat in a cottage waiting for all the fairies/murders etc to make sense.

Two women trapped by the interminable blink of my cursor…

If there is a reason for my lack of progress, I don’t know it.

I don’t have writer’s block.

The ideas still flow.

I haven’t fallen out of love with telling tall tales – that joy still exists.

But what I have done is wallowed in a mire.

I have Jabberwocky levels of distraction.

Rejections, both the silent and written polite ‘no, not for us’ have taken their toll, but those cuts aren’t really that deep.

I’m a big boy I can take it.

Yet still I write so very little.

Maybe it’s not them, possibly it is me?

Could we try a trial separation?

Maybe some enforced absence from the keyboard would help?

Maybe less naval gazing?

Maybe so many things.

We mutter, we muse, and we write so very little…

Stay safe – remain sane!