Writer's Block

I've got to write a five hundred word piece on 'violence'.  This is for my local writers' group meeting, to be held in a few weeks.  The shitful thing is: I have NO idea what to write.  Now, having typed that sentence I am going to make a liar of myself and write how domestic violence is a biggie in the news of late, and that the government will grandstand to keep certain performers out of the country, and let others in.  To wit: 'Chris Brown?  Nope, stay away from our shores, you flog.  Oh, yes, Ozzie Osbourne.  Come right in.  That little matter where you got pig-drunk and tried to strangle your wife?  Not a problem; we'll over look that.'  Also, violence is a major plot development device in cartoons.  Popeye the Sailor used to chug a can of spinach and deliver a haymaker to that fat fucker with the black beard, practically knocking him into orbit.  And of course bible stories are stuffed full of violent anecdotes.

But it's hard to write at the moment.  I've so many things on my mind and they make me a tad despondent, and I use them as an excuse to not work.  This will not wash with me.  Jeffrey Archer - I don't know if he is still 'Lord' Archer having served a prison sentence - has said of the notion that a writer must await inspiration: 'Simply pick up your pen and write!'  Well, I haven't picked up my pen.  I've turned on my computer and looked at the screen.  Surely that's a start of some sort.

Today I purchased a bottle of cabernet merlot. It is from a local feted award-winning winery, so I might sip a glass tonight and see if that brings forth the creativity.  Let me state this: I do not believe in turning to pharmaceuticals or alcohol to get the juices flowing.  That's bunkum.  I was a writer when I was a kid and never touched alcohol, except for the occasional sip of KB from the amber coloured corrugated glass my from which my father drank .  That glass was always in the freezer waiting for him to pour a cold one when he returned from a hard day's work over seeing that major sheep station.  In our clean-outs at Dad's house, I have not seen that glass.  Maybe it was broken some years ago, or maybe I've been too distracted by the embarrassment of finding that compilation of covers recorded by Leif Garrett I bought when I was twelve.  I will use my youth as an excuse for buying that execrable album.

So will I pour me a glass of red tonight?  I will see how I feel.  I will sip the one glass; it is the end of the week and I have touched no alcohol in days.  If I am despondent still, I will stop.  There is a real danger of me playing Chris Marshall's 'Only Crying', which includes the lyrics 'well the moonlight kind of threw me...and the red wine's getting to me...'.  If I play it, and have had some wine, there is a real danger I will be tempted to sing, and this will hurt the ears of my children.  And my husband.  And my dogs.  And my cockatiel (he's only little; I wouldn't want him to fall down from the perch, bleeding from those poor, put-upon ears).  If I have a glass of red and am in a good mood, I will have one more.

Thank you for dropping by and reading.  Check out my profile and click on the links to the first chapters of my novels.  If you're of a mind, you can go to the check out and purchase same.  This would make a glass of red wine very, very enjoyable.