Nothing to write

I can’t write.  I literally can’t write anything; I can’t think of anything to write.  When I think about the books I have written so far I realise they have one thing in common – in each and every case I had a story that was screaming ‘Write me! Write me!’   Such a persistent scream that I had no option but to sit down and write it.  Which probably explains why I have generally finished the first draft in four to six weeks – it’s hard not to when there is an irritatingly persistent voice screaming in one’s ear.  

Now there is nothing and I feel rather flat.  Oh, I have odd ideas, (in fact some are very odd ideas – which reminds me of a Hager the Horrible cartoon I saw years ago – Hager says ‘Helga and I have been married thirty odd years’ to which she responds ‘Thirty very odd years!’ – I tried to find a copy as a card for my husband when we had our thirtieth anniversary but had no luck), but nothing clear cut.   My daughters tell me I should write murder mysteries, complicated murder mysteries (they think I have a devious mind – perhaps they are right), and though I have had some ideas along those lines, there is nothing that quite makes a story.    They say (the ubiquitous they, who know everything) that everyone’s got a book inside them.  Perhaps seven was what I had in me, perhaps I shouldn’t be greedy.  I should just enjoy the newly arrived summer here in Cape Town.   Then, like not looking for romance, I can be pleasantly surprised when the next story just arrives unbidden.   If it does, or when it does, that remains to be seen. 

Till next time J