The itch is back.
I’m not talking about some rather embarrassing little ‘problem’ best kept private for a doctor’s surgery or anything like that.
What I’m suffering from is the itch to write.
I thought I had finally gotten rid of that urge to write the Great Twenty First Century Novel; the book that would be on every English syllabus across the land and beyond. I have had a lovely long period of peace but now the itch is back.
I don’t know what has revived it. I haven’t had some brilliant inspiration or anything like that. It’s quite the opposite in fact. My mind is a blank. I have no theme, plot or indeed any kind of a story to tell. For fucks sake I can’t even think of something to write here so what fucking chance do I stand with an 80,000 word book?
Herself has made a few suggestions but they all either involve romance or could be written in a single sentence. She has suggested I write about my family and people I have known but I would be straying outside the realms of decency. Anyway I would have to make sure they were all dead before writing about them.
Why the hell did I ever start this scribbling lark?