I have never in my life had nothing to say.
I have opinions on everything!
Normally when I want to write I can sit down, look around the room, spot a paper clip/mould/cheese/turnip and start tip-tap-typing away and rattle out a book on the subject.
I have this fear.
During the last few years, I’ve had lots of ideas and when I have the idea I think “Wow, what a great idea! I must commit this to memory, ponder a while and then turn out some excellent prose inspired by said idea!” (I’m very, very formal in my head.)
I wish I could be formal(er) in real life, but you can’t do that with a Dublin accent or you’re a ‘spa’. (look it up, non-Irelanders!). Like if I had my way, I would use words like “marvellous” and “wretched” in everyday speakings, as well as phrases such as “simply awful” and “delightfully splendid”.
But that’s another story.
Back to my theory.
So yes, I’ve been having lovely good ideas for stories and blog posts, but since I have the memory of an inflicted-with-dementia goldfish, 98% of these ideas float away, never to be idea-ed again!
And my theory: what if all the good writing ideas I’m supposed to have in my life all came in the last few years? What if I was supposed to save and use them then and now my store has dried up and my creative organ is now menopausal?
It is quite possible that the higher powers bestowed the wonderous gift of literary creativity on me, but wanted to be sure I was worthy of the bestowal: if I used the gift they gave me during that time, then I would be given it for life but because I dwindled it all away and took it for granted, it’s been snatched from my grasp!!!!
This makes me sad.
And totally messes up The Novel dream…. *sigh*