There are many different sorts of writer's block. These are mine.
This morning, before my allotted 3 and a half hours I have
1) Completely overhauled damp cross struggling 2 year old
2) Fed 6 hungry chickens
3) Supervised 3 enthusiastic advent calendar openings, admiring ice skating rodents, bigging up festive pine cones and justifying lack of chocolate.
4) BRIEFLY checked 'stray' cat's castration area (it was yesterday) and explained to 4yr old and 6 yr old what castration is and why it is done. In a roundabout way.
5) Fed 4 cats (one ruffled)
6) Fed 3 children with no breakages or major mishap.
7) Calmed pre nativity rehersal nerves and listened to Angel song three times.
8) Located essential nativity trousers at bottom of third overflowing wash basket
9) Written meaningful comments in two school reading diaries
10) Broke up two mid-level fights,
11) Found 2 fairly clean school uniforms and supervised dressing/teeth brushing etc
12) Written shopping list for dinner, remembered party invitations and communicated essential morning domestic tasks to husband in non patronsing manner.
13) Put on load of laundry (patting machine affectionately)
14) Emptied dishwasher, cleaned revolting filter and re-filled it whilst singing 'baa baa black sheep' with son.
15) Emptied 2 bins (one of which was breeding)
16) Lit fire
17) Made second (red) tier of double jelly with helpful two year old.
18) Wrote procrastinating blog
WHERE IS MY MEDAL???
And now, now, I am ready (breathes in) to continue on my writerly journey. The room is quiet, we artists must have utter peace, for our mystical and magic practices to begin.
I assume it is like this for everyone though I have an image in my head of a writer, this time, but not always - a chap, who rises to a cup of steaming coffee from his adoring wife, who, over a considered breakfast, reads a witty email from his youngest daughter who is at University. A morning stroll around his garden to dead head some roses and he is nearly ready to begin. but first, a steaming hot shower, some gentle stretches and his fingers are ready to begin dancing over the keyboard, in his book lined, quiet study, walls annointed with awards and witty pictures. He has the whole day, and all night if he likes (One does not interrupt him when he is working, not ever)
Does this man exist or is everyone like me? What stops you working?