I'm suffering a nasty bout of hypocrisy to go with my writer's block. It must be the time of year, more germs in the air etc.
Regular sufferers of my ramblings will know about the attack of the dreaded block which has been bothering me. Those with longer memories will also recall that on a couple of occasions I've happily served up hearty portions of advice about what to do for those similarly afflicted.
Don't get too wound up, says I. That only makes it worse. Walk away, ignore it, rise above it, don't let it goad or get to you, I preach. It'll go away in time to be replaced by the sunrise of inspiration.
So, has Dr Hall been following his own recommendations?
He has not, you may be unsurprised to hear.
Yep, I've been trying, but it's not that easy. It's so frustrating. When you love something as much as I do with writing, it really is like being parted from a sweetheart when it's not working out. So, despite my best advice, I've been getting cross and narky and entirely failing to be cool about it.
I have tried a few solutions. I've been running myself cross-eyed at the gym, and around the river, in the hope some pumping blood spurs my lethargic brain into action, and then going to the other extreme and laying back in a dark room, eyes closed, just trying to think.
Anyway, there is some good news, at LONG LAST! I've felt the clouds starting to shift and a few beams of light head my way. I'm beckoning and clutching and grabbing and hoping they'll be joined by more and more colleagues in sufficient numbers to deliver the muse back unto me.
I'm more than jolly pleased about it, to say the least. I fear these darker days will be even more depressing without the company of my fickle love...