The Writer

Having lived for a while at Alfred Hitchcock's birth town, I have a peculiar liking for dark comedy. Currently showing on UK TV is a comedy sketch show performed by Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse featuring a writer and an hotel landlady. It is pure Hitchcock I tell you! Here, have a peek:

The point?

After many months of inactivity, a review of progress on novel No.2 resulted in a new paragraph or two. After shutting down for the evening feeling optimistic that progress could now be made, returned to the fray as blocked as ever. Why, she asks herself? After all, novel No.1 was produced under far more unfavourable conditions. What's the matter?

Nothing.

Yes, it's been nothing for months. Almost a year in fact, as subscription renewal notices remind me. Tempus fugit, as they say.

Actually, almost a year ago I stopped doing one of the set of futile activities I started as a result of being made redundant. The economic climate was not right, I told myself. Hmmm. Now, as I write, there are a whole lot of chickens gone to roost regarding national and international economic and business conditions. Too bad. Can't help feeling there's a 'revolutionary' change about to happen. The 21st century cannot possibly carry on like the 20th ended. Trouble is, I'm inclined to think that what I do, and can do, is as much use to the future as Dodos' flying capabilites, (i.e. zilch). A line of thought that doesn't exactly aid creative thinking!

So, where am I?

Ah yes, word count = 17948.