It seems like time had just spun around into a big mess, like chewing gum in hair. So, my planned post didn't happen. Of course, I've been beating myself up about this. But then again, these things happen and we all know what happens when writer's start doing their own heads in. (Last week I dressed up all 1920s and watched The Shining for Halloween. That reminded me, 'All work and no play makes Dane go fucking mental.')
I was finding it almost impossible to find the time (and the energy) to write. Generally I would struggle along, doing bits and pieces of writing here and there, on the train to work, the occasional evening, or when my inner critic got angry enough I would shut myself away with the intention of just writing for the whole weekend. But intentions are just ideas and even after this enforced solitude I would often feel that I hadn't written enough. This lack of productivity was enough to charge up my inner critic and there I was again, falling fast back down into the black hole of creative block and general despair at my writing-self.