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I’M TRYING TO GET RID OF MY TENDENCY TOWARD WRITING.  NASTY HABIT. IT’S DRIVING ME MAD, MAD, MAD!!  I’M GOING CRAZY!

I’ve promised myself I’ll only write lists – shopping lists – from now on and see how I go!  I know I can kick this dreadful addiction.  I know I can. No more stories!

ONE DAY LATER

So, here I am, writing my shopping list and I’m doing SPLENDIDLY.  

‘Tomato Ketchup’, I write, thoughtfully chewing my pencil. 

GULP!  Reminds me of oozing, sweet-smelling blood, dripping onto the road, clotting rapidly, caked into a young mother’s hair.  Her car collides with a tree and she lies there, prostrate and unconscious on the ground while her six-year-old child screams, helpless and trapped in the back seat of the smashed, battered car.  What a story! 

 “Oh, please, no! I’ve broken my vow already,” I screech, sweat oozing out of every pore.  

What to do?  Ah, I’ll crumple it up and throw it away – that’s what I’ll do, I’ll bin it.

With bitter tears, I pace the floor, the crumpled paper in my fist.  My fist tightens around it.  I stand up, I sit down – I pace.

“This is worse than giving up smoking”, I scream, “I wonder if there’s a self-help group out there for me.  I can’t stand much more of this.”

If there is a group, maybe it’s called W.A. – Writers Anonymous – where I can pop in and tell them “I’m Sheila and I’m a writer”.  I could state it with honesty, integrity and heart-felt regret.

Everyone would clap, nodding their appreciation as I speak of my dreadful deeds.  Once I’m established as a W.A. member and attend regular meetings I’ll stand up proudly and shout from the rooftops,

“My last write was six months ago!”

Ah, last write – last right – last rights!  

Oh, just think of the story I could tell, about the patient who’s receiving the last rights from her priest and she’s screaming.  Nobody hears her.  She’s in a coma, on her death bed.

“Hey”, she yells, without any effect on the people standing gloomily around her bed, “I’m in here!  It’s only a matter of time – I know I can beat this – don’t switch off life support just yet.  A shadow in the light told me that if I can hold on for another few hours, I can come back to consciousness.  PLEASE DON’T DO THIS!  LEAVE THE MACHINES ALONE!  I’M NOT DEAD!”

Oh, but I mustn’t.  

“I mustn’t write it down.  I promised.  I can’t break my vow.  I’ve got to stop!” I tear at my hair impetuously. 

But how can I stop?   It’s an addiction – and addictions are hard to beat.  It’s driving me nuts, this compulsion to write. I need professional help! I need to achieve Writers’ Block for good.  

FIVE DAYS LATER

I need a counsellor, somebody who would sit me down in an ambient room, beside a coffee table, facing bright fish, red and bronze tails swishing, swatting the edges of a pristine tank with ornamental bridges and coral – and a treasure chest spilling over with gold and silver doubloons; priceless jewels sparkling blue and green in the clear water: a deep-sea diver spraying out multitudes of bubbles from his oxygen tank reflecting prisms of light in beautiful rainbows.  What a tale that deep-sea diver could tell.  But I won’t write his story.  I won’t!

I digress.  I must get that counselling.  Ah, yes…

My counsellor, sitting in our restful room adorned with peaceful paintings of water-lilies, would gaze upon me reflectively, listening in avid awe to my tale of woe.  She would look at me with empathy and ask in soft tones,

“So, how does that make you feel?” 

ONE WEEK LATER 

I have my answer. And I say, smiling sweetly, “I can’t possibly tell you, but I could write about it!”