Richard Wright

author of strange, dark fictions


Life – Or “Writer’s Block”

March 27, 2012 by Richard Wright in Journal, Life

My foot is healing. This is not unexpected, and barely counts as news. However, there may be fans of the fractured metatarsal out there who would never forgive me if I let a blog post slip by without reference to the ongoing reconstitution of a small bone.

I can now put some weight on it. Not much, but a little. The special magic robot boot may be helping. It may not. It certainly garners attention, even occasional awe. I’m tempted to pimp it up, or maybe just invest in go faster stripes*.

That was your weekly installment of Footwatch. Tune in next week, for more exciting… um… healing.

If books excite you more than bones (come on, there must be some of you), then I’m pleased to be able to tease you with the foreknowledge that August will see two brand new books from me, available to you, subject to the exchange of some filthy, dirty lucre. Neither will cost you much, and both will smash an enjoyable storyboot against your boredom bones. They’re very different tales. While one is a big, apocalyptic beast, the other is an action-packed, off-the wall adventure yarn (that I haven’t actually written yet – but as I do, it will be entirely to the soundtrack of an Indiana Jones movie). One of these will be announced by the publisher fairly soon, I hope. The other, a little later on. August, though. Mark it in your diaries**.

In other news, life is tough. Yep. Tough. Toughy, tough, tough. I know, about as significant a revelation as the fact that bones heal. Still, it’s been a difficult time here, and is likely to be for a while longer. At some point, when I have perspective, I’ll blog about it (oh, the anticipation). Right now, it’s all a bit swampy. Better to concentrate on getting through than pontificating about it. The only bit relevant to this blog right now is that I’m ‘blocked’ on the writing, and have been for a week or two.

‘Writer’s block’ doesn’t actually exist, by the way. It’s just a lazy way for writers to make the fact that ‘life happens’ a more unique and authorly thing than it actually is. Writing, despite the grand and poetical claims made by some, does not happen in some crystalline mental void, pure and separate from the real world. It happens despite  the real world, and is often the first thing to suffer when life goes through one of its frequent tricky bits. That’s where I’m at right now, which is a bit frustrating, because I know that filtering life through some honest fiction*** would help enormously. I’m getting there though. Today I nearly wrote something. I certainly stared at a blank page for a long time, pen poised, speculating on how I might connect the two. That’s an enormous improvement from the mental fugue of the last fortnight.

Fingers crossed, a breakthrough is imminent. All it usually takes is a bit of a run-up.


* christ, I wish I could make it go faster…
** hands up – does anybody still own a diary? Really?
*** fiction is habitually more honest than non-fiction. Fact.

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