I'd love to write a book. Really, I would. So far, I've published (in the loosest sense) three chapters, and a fourth has been under way for a good while. However, I've found that it's just not happening for me. Why?
Well, as always, life is getting in the way of art (no sniggering please). I have one more unit left in my MTESOL course, and a lot of my spare time is spent reading journal articles and taking notes which I'll never look at again. I also have a family that (rather unreasonably) expects attention when I get home from what is laughingly called 'work'. However, the main obstacle to a career as a world-renowned author and a well-deserved Nobel Prize or two (I'm nothing if not confident) is my back.
Yes, my back.
Regular readers may already have gathered that I have had back problems over the past six months, and while the young whipper-snappers among you may scoff at such a wimpy excuse, the older of my followers will probably empathise (and if you don't, well, bugger off; I like my readers sycophantic and sympathetic). You see, while I'm able to dash off rubbish like this in my sleep, my writing requires deep concentration, and it's difficult to drum that up when my back is throbbing like... (fill in your own simile - nothing dirty, please...).
Swimming, stretching and the odd day off work will, I'm sure, help me back to full fitness, but until then, my poor protagonists are frozen in the literary ether. Which must be very cold for them. If you are one of the select few who have downloaded my efforts from Smashwords, well, firstly, thanks a million for dropping by. Secondly, I do apologise profusely (rest assured, I flog myself on a regular basis). Finally, I will try to get my act together some time soon.
Possibly. Don't hold me to that. I'm an artist, don't you know...