Any inspiration, imagination, creation is instantly burned out of your mind. Sitting with hands poised like two baby monkeys over the keyboard, only to fall onto it sobbing until the Windows error beep draws you upright again in a tangled mess of hair stuck to (erroneously marketed as waterproof) mascara, dribbles of lachrymosity, oozing mires of mucus, truly a vision of misery.
By this third paragraph you will have deduced the love crater into which I have fallen/been dragged is not a happy one, and you would think being subject to literary leaning I would pitch into the pot of angst/agony/wretchedness, brew in it some intensifying hell plot to create an as yet unknown quantity, an electrifying work of fresh imaginings. No. It doesn’t work like that.
The need to write every day: to chart every happening, observation, conversation encountered has been countered by Mr Wonderful.
I want my words back.
Staring out the window for inspiration was my favourite distraction, now it is meaningless, even storms working their way through the alphabet, cat fights on the lawn, seagulls dropping seasonal fare, damp autumn leaves splatting onto the window only to be ripped away by a wilful wind can’t engage me, because he has. And then the phone rings…