That was an easy enough start. What shall I write next? Let me have a think. Maybe a cup of tea would help.
It ought to be straight-forward to dash off a few hundred words, but it never is.
Perhaps a biscuit to go with the cuppa. Or perhaps not. Let me go and have a look in the cupboard anyway.
I can never sit down and write more than a sentence or two in one go. I lose the flow, then pause and wonder what to write next.
Hang on a minute. It'll come to me eventually, honest.
Something always distracts me, usually temporarily, diverting my attention away from the task in hand.
Nice biscuit. That pile of papers on the table needs tidying. Let me put some different music on.
Writing on a computer is begging for trouble, because there are so many potential distractions.
I need to double check that fact, where's Google? Did someone just send me an email? And has anything happened in the news in the last ten minutes? Unlikely, but worth checking all the same.
My blog may appear effortless to read, but it's rarely effortless to write.
Is effortless the right word? Let me try a few others, to see if they're better. Maybe I should swap the order of the words around a bit. Cut, paste, undo, delete. Is that any better? Actually, maybe it was OK in the first place.
Each new paragraph demands another flash of inspiration to raise it above the mundane.
Hopefully that inspiration will come if I sit and stare out of the window for a bit. Looks nice out there, doesn't it? Remind me, did I just check my email?
Calculating my writing speed in words per minute is usually a thoroughly depressing activity.
How can it take so long to write so little? Any normal blogger would have finished ages ago.
Waiting for the next word, phrase or sentence to emerge eats up huge proportions of my time.
Look, it's got dark outside since I started writing this. A third cup of tea might be a good idea to help me concentrate. And then I'll go back to the last paragraph and completely rewrite it.
I'm sure I used to write faster than I do now. Or maybe I was just more easily satisfied.
Where does the time go? Writing keeps me off the streets, but that may not be a good thing. I need to speed up a bit.
It strikes me that writing about life is no substitute for living it.
