I am loathe to describe my current struggle as writer’s block. Because for a start I would then be labelling myself a writer, a title which I do not feel totally worthy of just yet. I am therefore suffering from what I call ‘Waffler’s Wall’.
|This is a picture of a wall, in case you are unfamiliar with them.|
My waffler’s wall has come about not from lack of crap to write about, but rather a sudden realisation that people read the stuff I post here. A combination of being a finalist in the BiBs and passing another page view milestone has somewhat discombobulated my normal mind set. I am second guessing myself. I am suddenly concerned with writing what the reader wants to read, what is worthy of the moments you have granted me in your life?! It is getting me nowhere. Where once I would dash off 100 words on the wonders that are the hairs in Zooey Deschanel’s fringe, I am now worrying that that isn’t good enough.
Well feck that game. I am mentally slapping myself firmly about the chops. Writing whenever the urge struck, and about whatever I was thinking about at that moment got me this far, so why start considering my creativity more carefully now!!
Rather than imagining you all naked, which would be distracting as you are all SO RUDDY GORGEOUS, I am going to imagine you are not there at all. Which you didn’t used to be, and probably won’t be again if I continue my navel gazing for any length of time. (Tho my navel is fascinating, a small place for the tiny dead bits of me to dwell til flicked out by a finger.)
So today I offer you these thoughts which occurred over the weekend:-
Is the occasional green crisp in the packet safe to eat? Someone once told me the green bits in potatoes are arsenic, which now I come to write it down, does seem an odd claim – so perhaps it is one of those hangovers from childhood that is just bollocks, like if you chew your hair you will get a giant hairball round your heart and die. Must google the arsenic/potato thing and find a definitive answer.
Why is Boris Johnson likable? Even I like him, and I hate him.
Watching Mock Of The Week (which it is fondly known as in my house after the teen accidentally called it that, it is also ALWAYS said in a bad Irish accent. It may be just us that does that.) I discovered a thing exists called Traffic Light parties, where you colour code yourself depending on your ‘availability’ . This brought 2 thoughts almost simultaneously to mind:-
1) Thank Jehovah I am neither young nor single, it sounds like a positively HIDEOUS idea for a party.
2) I might employ the colour coded clothes technique with my kids. ‘Um. Helloooo?! Can’t you see Mummy is wearing Red, that means I am currently unavailable….’ I do not own ANY green clothes unfortunately.
Love Miss Cisco XXX
p.s. turns out green potatoes ARE poisonous. Well. According to neurotic people on the internet they are, and who am I to question their authority….