A random number of almost plausible excuses
Some say that to grow as a writer, to truly inhabit the world of a writer, to grab that skinny chance of becoming the writer you might, you must write every day.
They get on my nelly.
Imagine my horror when my own experiments found they’re probably flippin’ right.
Something peculiar, bigger than plain old practice but not quite as sparkly as magic, happens to the daily writer, to their creativity, confidence, energy, insight, and possibly even competence.
As I’m well and safe and fed and free (hurrah!) what I end up doing is pretty much whatever I chose to.
Which puts me in urgent need of bold excuses. Here goes nothing.
I’m not writing today because…
I’ve forgotten all the words except these.
I need to speak to some real people, please.
My spectacles have mysteriously turned into kaleidoscopes.
It’s a protest against punctuation, also letters.
Nidaba, Sumerian goddess of writing, popped by and asked me not to, ever so politely.
Nothing except my mind exists.
My laptop has botulism.
Actually, I am writing, in my mind, and I think you’ll find it’s completely different from daydreaming.
My fingers have been possessed by a monkey spirit, a really stupid one.
I don't know about you, but I'm convinced. Almost.
Aw, flippin' Nora.