That’s how it feels. A while ago I blogged about how it wasn’t the case anymore. But it’s back. Whatever it is. Indecision maybe? Fear? Stupidity?
I have, at the last count, 12 books which I’ve started but haven’t finished, 5 ‘novels’, none of which are more than 7 pages long and 2 scripts, 1 of which is the same story line as one of the novels – thought I’d try a different medium. It didn’t help.
I don’t know why I can’t seem to get past the first bit with the writing. But in the past 5 years (roughly) I haven’t been able to finish anything. Except a few poems in the last few months. I always thought I was creative. I tell people that I write. Turns out it’s a lie. I think I’m just kidding myself. I think I want to be a writer, but am just going to have to accept that I’m not. I’m not creative. I’m not a medic. Not entirely sure what I am...
I don’t know what’s going on with the books.
In case you’re wondering, these are the books (in no particular order):
The Fry Chronicles by Stephen Fry
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Moon Over Soho by Ben Aaronovitch
A Clash of Kings by George R R Martin
Middlemarch by George Eliot.
Bad Medicine: Doctors Doing Harm since Hippocrates by David Wooton
The Greatest Benefit to Mankind by Roy Porter
Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
Hippocratic Oaths by Raymond Tallis
Nervous System by Jans Lars Jenson
The Philosophy of Evidence Based Medicine by Jeremy H Howick