Wednesday, April 18, 2007


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.





Around My Kitchen Table said...

Writer's block is God's way of telling you to go out and get pissed, come home, lug out the laptop and write the first thing that comes into your head. It really works. I tried it last night and here are my first couple of paragraphs:

"dark Nite falls after aday of Bronzen glory. Glory glory glory glory. Is that short for Gloria. WhereDid she spring from????
gLORIA removed her black gloves finger by finger. Could just Eat a cadbry's chocolate finger rite now."

Rather Joycean, don't you think?

Jacob P. Murgatroid said...

My God, I believe that works! I'll be drunk within the hour and then we'll see what this old brain of mine can churn out.

Now, where's that whisky. I've got writing to attend to!!

Ms Baroque said...

Better make sure it's a single malt. Otherwise it'll all be a jumble.

Maybe you're blocked because you haven't replaced that dressing gown yet...

Momentary Academic said...

I'm glad that you're still at it. Hurrah! I've missed you so very much, sir.

Anonymous said...

Well 'hellair' there!

Perhaps you are caught in the grip of some peculiar writers 'stage fright' at the very thought of doing the Murgatoid histories true justice. My advice - turn the sepia photographs of Admiral X and Colonel Y to the wall, hang a sheet over the Gainsborough portrait of Great Great GrandMama and press on with it man!

Or could it be something to do with England's poor performance at Kensington Oval last week?

Either way, snap out of it old bean! You are a man of letters, n'est-ce pas? Pray continue!

Jacob P. Murgatroid said...

Momentary, it's nice to be back but I'm plagued by insecurities about my writing. I'm now sitting down and I'll try to write an account of a shorter tale to see if it helps untangle the overgrown garden of my imagination.

Spymum, 'stage fright' is a good word for how I feel. History is watching me and I fear that I'm making a terrible mess of such an important historical document.

I will try, however, to snap out of it. A short detour into a different territory might help me get the creative juices flowing again.

ElizaF said...

A nudge the size of the Irish rugby team giving the English rugby team the elbow a few months ago :)

Miss E. J. Frogster said...

Okay, I see, how about you take this song of mine and my entire female reproductive system within it and that will sort you out?

The song is "Gordon Brown be my Angel"

"Gordon Brown be my Angel" (lyrics annotated) (BETTER SOUND QUALITY)

Brahms Lullaby

Gordon Brown! Gordon Brown!
Will you be my angel?
Guardian angel is what I meant
Will you rescue my soul?

For you are in charge
Of these people I wrote to
Stephen Timms, Jack Straw
Let me place my trust in you

Gordon Brown! MP’s!
Let me sing out loud
For what you do, for my country
For my reproductive system

You right wrongs! My right’s been wronged
I am desperate for you
Not just you! There’s Jon Herring
I’m a violated woman

Gordon Brown, help me sleep!
Help me sleep like a baby
Will my babies ever come out?
Maternal desires!
I lost my womanhood
In a sinister curse
Gordon Brown! Bring it back!
You are perfect for that!