Right, here goes. I've been failing to write anything apart from song lyrics and angst teenage poetry for the last two months, and I need a push. I will treat this as a opening for the rest of the day, and see if I can keep it up.
What to write about though? My mood? too obvious.
Start with a random object. or thing. The smell of spaghetti bolognaise. I have just made some.
She stirred the bolognaise sauce. It was her go-to, her staple for when she couldn't decide what to eat, which was half the days ever. ( this is terrible. It's ok, it's a warm up.) She'd been feeling pretty shitty recently. Nothing to do in the holidays from university. Yes, she could have gone an got a part time job, but what was the point? The hours would have interfered with general day to day activities, and to be honest, she couldn't even get out of bed in a morning and tidy up her flat, let alone go out and find work from a pedantic, watch-checking, arsehole who thought that her sole role in life was to be a slave to the minimum wage. What was the point of uni anyway? Just another excuse to not get a proper job. She wanted to be a writer. Ha. The aspiration of all pseudo-intellectuals. They do say that everyone has got a novel in them, but she was fairly convinced that her was buried under a thick, hard layer of apathy and patheticness.
She helped herself to a plate of hot spaghetti and sauce, and went and sat down by the computer. What to do? Trawl facebook, twitter, reddit, all these needless distractions from the fact that she should really be writing. No, today it was time to actually pick herself up and do some typing. It had all started so well. The beginning of summer, the 500 words a day minimum, which she had managed to stick to, even when she'd been on holiday. After that, the sun came out every day. There seemed to be little point in the writing when she knew she could be outside with her friends, doing nothing in particular but still having a great time. Drinking in the sun. the perfect way to spend the holidays. And now? The sun hadn't bothered to come out from behind the clouds for any longer than an hour, so instead she sat in the pub, doing the crossword and moaning about being bored. She had said that she had been waiting for the bad weather but when it came, she hated it even more for the fact that she was still incapable of getting off her arse and doing some writing.God. How trivially boring she was. There's that old saying, only boring people get bored. She thought about her friends, Ami, who worked 50 hours a week and still had time to write essays on philosophy and the nature of consciousness. She'd thought that maybe the work ethic of her boyfriend might have rubbed off somewhat but no, she was just one of those people who is, quite frankly, lazy. God. Some days she couldn't even be bothered to have a wash. Grebby. She put on the iPlayer, and watched a supposed comedy about a vicar. Is this supposed to be funny? It just seems bleak and almost cliched. A vicar has a crisis of faith? Oh no. Surely in this day and age all vicars must have crises of faith on a daily basis, what with the existence of science and the non-existence of a beard in the sky telling people what they could and couldn't do.
How on earth did she expect to write a novel? It would take years. Millenia. It's not too much to ask, is it? a couple of hours in the morning. Perhaps this could be a turning point. She opened her blog, and started to write. What to write? Perhaps a moan about how she couldn't write. It's an idea, eh?
There. That wasn't to bad. Flash fiction, a quick story/moan etc. God. Still got 60 words to go. Try a tanka.
Boredom kills the urge
to write anything at all
which is quite silly
because boredom is killed by
writing a few words at all.
there. that's better. I may even post this on my blog. fill up some space in the ether, whilst avoiding trolls. Perhaps I was a billy goat in a past life. baaa.
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