Creative constipation

Must. Write. Something.

I've got less than a week now to come up with 3 short stories, and I'm going to lose at least half the weekend attending my niece's first birthday party. Which will be fun, but won't, I fear provide a conducive environment for writing prize-winning fiction.

First up, though, an apology if anyone has actually been reading my ramblings. Or rambling, more precisely. My eagerly anticipated Morrissey gig, the only Christmas present I got that wasn't slippers, was cancelled, throwing me into a tumultuous state of depression, moping and utter unproductiveness for nearly a week. I stared. I sulked. I slept a lot. I listened to other people who claimed to have my best interests at heart wish Mozzer ill. I had a fight with a moron at Temple Meads train station. What I didn't do was write.

The nearest thing I can compare a 'writing itch' to is a nicotine craving. If I don't get my hit, I'm basically a not very nice person. Write for an hour a day and I'm fine; don't write and I quickly become evil. It's the most horrible feeling in the world when your muse ups and leaves you.

Last weekend I made a prearranged family trip to St Ives, which proved to be just the tonic. Slowly, I began to tease out a complex three-way scene towards the end of my novel. It took its time, but I'm hoping it was worth it.

Now, however, I'm staring at a picture of a man in his pants (the delectable James Sutton - John Paul in the soap Hollyoaks) hoping it will inspire me to write a story that's good enough for the Royal Society of Literature. But nothing is coming. I fear I am creatively constipated once more...