That’s what this has become. No, really. Every week it’s the same story: I thought about doing some writing. I wanted to do some writing. I managed about 10 minutes, which got me nowhere.
And it’s the same story this week. I know. I’m shit. I don’t deserve to call myself a writer, anymore. Writers write, Louise, you have to write to be a writer. Remember that thing you do with the pen and the paper? Yeah.
I know, I know. And it’s the same excuses: so many jobs, so little time. And then there’s the editing project and Rickmansworth Waterways Trust, which, to be honest, is a little quiet on the work-front right now – I’m mainly twittering for them. Oh and clever me has set up an appointment to meet with another charity about volunteering for them. I’m telling you, if they’re not going to pay you, organisations are all over people with degrees, even if it’s in Creative Writing. Shame they can’t share this enthusiasm with people who will actually pay you.
The good news is, I am catching up on the job applications. Soon I will be at the point where I won’t have a backlog at all. I’ll be able to apply for jobs on the day that I find them, which should improve my chances. This means I should have some time for writing. So no more excuses!