Writers unblocked

A year and a half or so ago I wrote a novel. Technically I suppose it would be a short novel or a novella as it was a little short at about 48,000 words, but it could easily have been expanded.

I was quite proud of it, as were Eleanor and Jessica when I started reading it to them (we never finished, as Joe was born. I also realise they were probably rather biased!). These days I don't have the time to flesh it out and finish it. This is shame because it's quite a good story and I'd love to see it published. I'd very much like to be a full time writer but what with mortgages and children a change in career is probably unlikely to happen.

Still, I'd like to think that someday I'll finish my book, The Door In The Cellar and find somebody stupid enough to publish it.

I also have lots of others stories swirling around my head. I did put down plot outlines to a couple of them and even wrote the first couple of chapters to one of them, but again I've stalled. This is not because of writers block - far from it - but again from a complete lack of time.

Anyway, due to thinking about this problem I wrote a little poem. I've never written one before and I think it's quite good:

One night the writer picked up his pen
Found some blank paper and sat in his den
A hundred ideas swirling round in his brain
Before we go further I now must explain

You've heard of a thing known as writers block
But this affliction our author had not
Too many ideas, plenty stories to tell
Now he was trapped in his personal hell

He knew he had found a wonderful lode
But also his head was about to explode
To get them all down needed plenty of time
Something our author knew he could not find

So there he sat, trying to get them down
Stories of fairies and badgers and clowns
Magic and daring and unicorns, too
Oh how he wished he had just a few

But many he had sitting up in his mind
Taunting him cruelly with plotlines divine
Colourful villains alive in his head
He knew it was futile to go up to bed

Filling his pen, he started to write
And worked and worked right through the night
Night turned to morn and then the sun rose
And still the author kept on with his prose

His pen ran dry, two or three times
But stopping was not really good for this rhyme
For days he wrote and was not once fed
And then, dear reader, he slumped over dead

And there ends the story of our favourite author
Who worked a bit longer than really he oughta
His tales are forgotten, will never be read
All because he didn't go up to bed