I love to write, always have, it is a good way of getting some release on frustrated feelings, but it is also healthy when you have as active and bizarre an imagination as mine. However, over the recent few years I have found it increasingly difficult to commit anything to paper (or, more accurately, the electronica herewith that masquerades as paper). It is as if the Word Wrangler himself has been going Hamburglar on my sweet behind and stealing the words before I can arrange them into acceptable patterns.
So, I am going to write about writing, a tricksy ploy to fool the Wrangler, words smuggled out under the cover of darkness; yep, 3 years into a bad case of the block I am that sneaky. I have a passionate desire to tell you all about the adventures of Pants Cat, a sad excuse for a moggy, the very antithesis of others in that wise and noble genus felis catus, but he has been asleep under the laburnum for the past 4 years since he purred his way into my conscience. I have a splendid idea that I came up with months ago for an audience-interactive play which I have traced the synopsis for, even pictured the protagonist in good detail but I can't seem to get him onto the page, let alone the stage. I have dozens of poems buzzing round my head but I can't fathom out which words go with which meter in which piece.
I really want to start writing regularly again, I want to get back to the story of Pete and Ellie that I began 7 years ago and still has Pete heading home for Christmas 2002 and Ellie smiling at him without the faintest idea of how her world is about to shatter. She probably doesn't deserve it, and she is certainly in no hurry to leak out of my imagination to experience it.
It is extremely frustrating, I need some fashion of shield behind which I can express wantonly whilst the Wrangler twirls his moustache menacingly, but ultimately helplessly, the other side. There must be such a shield, and I must find it soon as I am certain I can hear Pants Cat waking up outside.
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