Pain in my Brain

So it turns out I'm not very good at keeping promises. At all. Because I promised myself, and the internet (since like no one follows me on here anyway) that I would be oh-so-posty and blog every few days with my oh-so-creative talents of writing (but really anyone who must oh-so anything sarcastically a lot is probably not shedding her imaginative light today). But I failed you, and myself, and thus this is the first post in about a month. Actually, more than a month from when I last opened up my magical portal of words to flow through onto the page (or specifically my fingers and typing but I really must not doubt myself) and entertain your precious little hearts. And so, here is where I give all my excuses as to why this so called amazingness did not happen, and hence also why I am putting the suffix 'ness' onto any descriptive word I can find. 

Now, it's not that there's a lot of reasons. The cat died (I don't own one and never will), I lost wifi ( this will also never happen as I'm online too much for my own good), I went on holiday (which actually this one is true and I had an awesome time might I add). It's not an accumulation of rather random events to dwell on comprehensively. A list wouldn't even be sufficient. The thing is, I have this little nagging voice, a "pain in my brain" so I've mentioned, that's stopping me from pouring my heartfelt thoughts and feelings on various novels and pop culture and current media issues out for the entire world to see. It's goes by many names: procrastination, over-thinking, meditation, frustration, exaggeration; but most commonly known as the ever-powerful Writer's Block. Now to those of you who have so fortunately managed to escape it's dreaded freezing tentacles, let me explain what it feels like. 

Imagine you have a plateful of spaghetti and meatballs. And it's your favourite, the best spaghetti and meatballs you've ever had, the only thing that can quench that grumbling monster of hunger in your stomach. Yet, when you pick up your fork to eat it, you find you are blocked by an invisible forcefield, preventing you from doing anything but stare at the plate as you begin to salivate and wish there was some way you could alleviate this pain and now I'm just reminding you of Pavlov's dog. But my allegory, you see, is real. Writing is one (and maybe only) of my passions. A talent. Younger, it was always something I knew I could excel at. Maths was never a strong point, science just confused me, but when English came around I never had to doubt myself (except for that nagging teacher with my "over-writing". Please, that's being imaginative unlike the rest of my dumbfounded class). For weeks on end, day after day I would sit with my review book, a blue pen in my right hand and the said to-be-reviewed book in front of me, sticky-noted and dog-eared. Ready and waiting for an amazing thing to happen. But alas, it has thwarted me, hidden away in the recesses of my cobwebbed brain to only reappear when persuaded by my mother with the words "book store" and "voucher". Only then did I realise, there were so many more books to read, review, love and cherish in the world that I have not yet had the opportunity to even write down the title on my to-read list. So many opinions to have on things, media to criticise and analyse and encourage. And how was I ever going to get there, with all this success, if I had this block in my head, that prevented me from doing something I loved? I couldn't let it keep me any longer. You, my dear enemy, have now been vanquished. For how long, I can't say, but the pen is mightier than the sword. 

And hence why, the neglectful shadow over this blog is perhaps never going to lift. Perhaps at times the sun will shine through and I'll have a spark of genius and your feed will be filled with rambunctious rants and ramblings and reviews by yours truly. Hopefully you've understood my problem more. But until then, you'll have to bare with me. Good things come to those who wait. 

Aly xx