I think about a million different things to write about every day. My dog’s latest piano composition, the lady smoking cigarettes, pushing a cart while trudging down Quarrier Street While toiling away at my desk, using my best creative energy to write copy for the church, I dream about the real writing I could be doing.
Then I sit at my desk at home and can’t think of a bloody thing. Part of it is that I want every word that flows from from my fingers pecking at little black keys to be perfect. Which I know is impossible - and yet, the voice says: “if you were really good, and talented, you wouldn’t have to try so damn hard.”