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The writing is not flowing at the moment. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks writing a story, and have had to squeeze it out painfully like… a scatological simile that I really shouldn’t… ahem, follow through with any further.

Perhaps it’s the season. The perpetual darkness and rain and cold. Easy to blame my  laziness on that. The writing needs a course of vitamins. It needs flushed out with salt water and fed on a steady diet of meat and potatoes.

Beginning to think I should concentrate on a novel after I finish this story and revise a couple of others. The plan was to finish the second draft of ‘The Gardener’, which I’ll attempt, but I have another idea for a new one, which has been building slowly for a long, long time.

Working on a story that has been difficult, and unrewarding, can’t help one’s motivation. When the writing is a struggle and not a pleasure, like anything, it’s ‘easy’ to give up and do other less taxing things. But it’s not easy. It’s hard. It weighs on your mind. You know you should be writing. It haunts you like a restless spirit. So instead of writing you go and watch the latest Harry Potter amongst the sound of masticated popcorn and children asking ‘What’s happening, Mummy?’ It’s the sound of the Warner’s Bros goblins in Gringott’s bank vaults, counting their money.