Sometimes it feels impossible to open a post; to find that sentence which sums up everything which has happened, without sounding trite or forced. It’s far easier to put off writing anything and spend the day procrastinating instead. In many aspects of my life I’m far from a perfectionist – unwashed coffee cups and screwed-up Rizlas littering my desk – but when it comes to my writing, I have a strange pride. I’d rather leave stuff out than feel unhappy with a post. That doesn’t mean I think I can write well; just that I feel I have to reach a certain standard before allowing myself to click “publish”.
It’s especially difficult to find that one magic opening sentence after the weekend; it’s the only time of the week where real life happens, and trying to think of everything… it’s difficult. My memory is so short-term nowadays that trying to put everything together without filling in the gaps with imagined scenarios is difficult.
For example, what do I write about in this post; the extra night spent with S? The trip to Manchester? The fact that I socialised and felt brave enough to get a train home on my own from Bolton? The excessive sleep, and the argument my mother tried to start this afternoon when I finally dragged myself out of bed?
Or do I just bail out again?