I’ve been asked to give a talk with some autobiographical content. So far, authoring it has been like pulling teeth. In fact, I’m considering drafting up business cards that read, ‘Emma Scrivener. Full-time Not-Writer’. On the plus side, the CDs have been alphabeticised, the oven cleaned and all the tinned goods have their labels facing out. But now I’ve run out of options. I’m back at the computer, waiting for the Inspiration Fairy to work her magic.
Writing anything is painful. Hours spent staring at a blank screen, re-boiling the kettle and deleting half-finished sentences . And that’s just the Cosmo ‘What’s My Love Language?’ questionnaire. When you’re trying to make sense of your own life, (at least mine), you’re finished before you’ve even started.
I don’t seem to be quite as charming as the heroines peppering the pages of my favourite books. There’s the unsavoury personal habits. The anger issues. The sheer, unending monotony of my sin. It’s like a really boring episode of Groundhog Day, with no Bill Murray. (Yes that leaves Andie MacDowell. On a loop. I KNOW).
I look at me and I’m trying really, really hard to find the loveable bits. Occasionally I want to give her a hug. But mainly I want to slap her. ‘Just stop!’ ‘Are you a goldfish? LEARN something. Stop making EXACTLY the same mistakes. It’s so BORING. PLEASE.’
But nothing happens. Instead I keep poddling ahead, contentedly pressing the button marked ‘self-destruct’.
Who will save me from these chapters of death? Thanks be to God for another author.