What Ho Proles!
Okay, let’s the cut the pretence, shall we? You can all see that I’m suffering from writer’s block. It’s why I’m so quiet. I sit here, day after day, week after week, staring at the screen. I have so much to say but no way of saying it. Writer’s block. Writer’s block. Bally writer’s bally block…
I’ve never believed in it before. It’s something that I was told the prole writers catch occasionally, but only when they’ve been too friendly with their goats. We men of refinement are not expected to suffer from such a common complaint. We are educated to higher degrees of insight than the common lot. We are eloquent, full of anecdote and whimsy. We are the masters of the word; words do as we say, come when we call, and deploy in lines of staggering intellect.
Or so I’m let to believe.
So, I’m still blocked. My holiday away in the Indies was supposed to have cured me. It did, for a while. Except when I try to write. I’m still stuck. I’m still blocked. I’m frightened of finishing my memoirs. I feel history pressing down on me, demanding a volume of such genius that it will do proper credit to the great Murgatroid name.
There, I’ve said it. I’ve made a staggering declaration of weakness. But is there any cure for writer’s block? I find I simply can’t conclude my memoirs. They are sitting here frozen on my machine. How to I proceed?
70,000 words and no way on.