For the past couple of weeks, I've been so wrapped up in working, and other things, (life in general), that I've not been able to sit down and give my writing the time it deserves. I find myself skulking in the darkened corners of the room (figuratively, of course) brooding about the words I could be writing, the world I could be creating. If only.
It's at times like these, when I think, 'Yes, but people who write seriously, wouldn't have blocks of time when they didn't get on with it.' Possibly, it's just me thinking of the ideal state of play, where there would be nothing else to do but write - then I think, how boring it would be, and now that I do have time to write: I can write till Christmas!
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