The start of the year was all Carpe Diem, good things come to those who earn it, skin-bristling motivation and endless pitch-sending. It was my New Years Resolution to write more, to get more articles in national publications. And so I sent my latest novella manuscript to various agents, pitched to numerous editors, and every day I’d get an email with a new opportunity. The day was being seized so hard that its eyes bulged and all it emitted was tiny wheezing sounds.
January was a good month. February, however, is like a wasteland. A wide, open desert where not even a tumbleweed can bounce lightly across the sand, such is the drought in my imagination and creativity. It’s just split horizontally between endless sand and blue sky.
I have writer’s block, I think – or, as I like to call it: a writing funk.
I open emails and wait, my fingertips hovering above the keys, willing something amazing to be written where I wow an editor with an unstoppable pitch which would be so incredible that they forget to eat for the rest of the day. I open Word to write an article or column and see nothing but a vast desolate expanse of white and a cursor which blinks mockingly at me. I try and think of pitches, of article ideas, but my brain is so full of thick useless fog that I can’t even form words in my mind.
The juices which flowed through me at the start of the year have dried up and turned to dust. I need inspiration. Inspire me, people!