Previously on the blog….
I’ve cured it, finally kicked that bastard writer’s block to the curb. How did I overcome it I hear you cry? Honestly, by lying on the floor, listening to loud music and wearing fancy dress clothing. Yes I am well aware I sound and look clinically insane, to be honest I think I probably am.
This practically bonkers idea came from one of my best friends, Hayley. She called me yesterday in absolute ecstasy, her reason? She had her mojo back. Not the Austin Power ‘yeah baby yeah’ type mojo but her designing mojo. She’s a fashion student and a cracking good one at that but as of late she’s had designer’s block, much to her annoyance. This was true until yesterday, with the catalyst of loud music and dancing, the wall of zero-inspiration came a crumbling down. It hit me that perhaps this method could do the same for me.
So I pumped up the beats and began to dance or rather jiggle about in my room (curtains firmly closed). I’m not much of a dancer and it didn’t aid the flow of inspiration merely adding to my personal worries of boogying like a dad. So the dancing was scrapped, perhaps for good if I value people’s sanity. I wondered around the house trying to think of ways to free my mind from these shackles, when I stumbled upon the fancy dress box (literally, my toe now kills) and a giant light bulb above my head flickered on. I’m not proud of what occurred next, if I was living in a sitcom world a montage would have been played as I tried on increasingly awful array of crazy clothes. I finally settled on a uniform for writing: Christmas socks, baggy McHammer esque trousers, a pirate t-shirt, a red bowtie and a beret. I felt certifiable but a hell of a lot more inspired so I sat at my desk pencil in hand, but nothing came, the dam was still impenetrable.
I sat there feeling mighty stupid and defeated, slumping back on my broken extremely wobbly chair the solution came to me in a Sherlock Holmes style way: “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”. Since every other reason for the block had well hit a block I concluded that the chair and desk were the culprits to the murder of my inspiration.
So as I write I am lying on the floor, Ellie Goulding blearing out of my sound system, dressed like an absolute Muppet. I’m cured thanks to the most bizarre concoction that would make any physiatrist raise an eyebrow, but, the main thing is I’m writing again.