Ok, so the blog I was *planning* to write (about the honeymoon, A215 results happiness and various other life-changing weirdnesses in my life at the moment) is refusing to materialise.
Instead, I’ve been flicking back and forth to Facebook (oh look, another picture of Jessica Ennis!), forcing down the occassional spoonful of rapidly-cooling porridge and reading articles on the Guardian website in a vague, not-really-interested kind of way.
What’s up with me?
I have pages and pages of lovely words in my notepad – words about the sea and the sky, words about the places we visited and the people we met, even a few words of fiction when I could drag myself away from the dizzying swirl of still-fresh memories – and yet the physical act of ordering and transcribing them suddenly feels like an insurmountable challenge.
I know this feeling of old. Some might call it procrastination: these days I think of it as ‘dancing in the red shoes’ (anyone who’s read ‘Women Who Run With the Wolves’ by Clarissa Pinkola Estes will know what I mean).
So I’ve been forced to ‘write myself in’. Words about why the words won’t come are better than no words at all.
And hopefully, in the next couple of days, I will be able to prise my red shoes off for long enough to share some of the lovely words from my holiday notepad…