It is Saturday. I have firmly told my husband I would spend Saturday writing. I have put on my Writer’s Socks (lively, nay, eyewateringly bright, hand-knits. Trés boho). My hair has automatically adopted the Writer’s Hairstyle (severely under-combed). I am Here. The coffee is Here.
And that’s it. Total blank-sheet-of-paper-itis. Just as Titania mentioned in Tuesday’s comments.
There are a couple of bloggers I adore that are not even really about writing (which is why I haven’t put them in the blog-roll, though perhaps I should stick in a category of Stuff I Just Like, So Bloody There). One of them (no, I won’t link. I’ll link when I have something (rather than nothing) to share) hasn’t posted anything at all for over a week for no reason at all that she cared to divulge. Just, radio silence. Of course, she’s probably very very busy having a life. But it gives me a little blip of agitation every morning. And I thought, well, she has hundreds of readers, and I don’t, and I feel very arrogant just thinking this, but is it fair of me to allow laziness and that flattened unispired feeling to inflict such a blip on even one of my readers, assuming any of them do blip, and why on earth should they, only people do say such kind things sometimes, and I feel a bit discombobulated by this thought, perhaps I should stick to cocoa? And what’s with all the parentheses?
Anyway, I apologise for any irregular posting patterns that may have caused blips, and I apologise even more so with extra grovelling for this incoherent mass of gibberish. You may well prefer blippage. And now I shall go and finish the book I want to review for you, and damn well review it.
