Just been lying in the bath, musing on the creative process, or more particularly, my creative process, always a slightly unpredictable beast at the best of times.
My big complaint over the last few years has been the lack of time I had for writing which meant anything I wanted to do had to be condensed into an hour or so in the evening; one of the drawbacks of living in a small house with four children between the ages of 5 and 8 and three adults.
Now I'm living on my own, with my 2 children staying 3 and a half days a week, with the other two visiting regularly but for shortish periods, I have far more time, even when I'm doing extra relieving work (I wish it was Christmas everyday) as I am at the moment. Despite that, I haven't published anything since the middle of November and it's not a shortage of ideas, the next four or five episodes of TUWTPWY are all there in the labyrinthine chamber I call my brain as well as some hopefully interesting non-fiction posts (I'm even going to start writing for redline again after a gap of about 18 months).
So there I was playing with the rubber duck (not a euphemism) wondering why I was just not keeping up with the voices in my head when, just as the cat chased the dog out of the bathroom, I had a revelation. Now that I had my records, cds, books, stereo etc, I was actually gorging myself on music and books in an orgiastic attempt to catch up with lost time.
Anyway, that will stop and I will get on with the writing as well implementing the next stage of the five year plan which involves setting up a new blog to put the creative material on and leaving this for the political, philosophical and weird stuff.
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