There's a story I want to write. I know the plot, I know the main sequence of events and necessary scenes, I know the characters and I have a deadline. I want to write it, really I do. So why do I have this urge to turn on the television? It will only irritate me and I know I won't write if it's on. Perhaps I should make another cup of coffee or check my emails again or do the ironing first, so the knowledge that a pile of crumpled laundry is waiting for me won't put me off. I even started writing this longhand left-handed simply to see if I could, rather than tackle what I should have been writing.
    The trouble is, all the possible words and scenarios jump around in my head and won't let me pin them down on the page. I've started the story three different ways and returned to the first one, which looked quite good but immediately became fraught with problems so that I hardly got a sentence into it before I changed my mind. I simply can't decide on the best way to write it. If I go for a walk, inspiration might strike and I might be able to find the missing component that will make the story work. On the other hand, I might simply be wasting time, putting off the moment when I have to focus. One thing's for sure, if I haven't made progress on a first draft by the end of the day, I shall feel bad about myself, even if I have sorted out a batch of stories to submit to magazines, written this blog and caught up on a number of forums (fora?). It might look productive, but I'll know that all I've really done is procrastinated.
    Maybe if I just tell the story the way I'm telling you about the struggle to write it, as if I'm talking to someone in front of me... but then I'd be telling and not showing. Aargh! Giving birth seems easier–at least there'd be something worth having at the end of it. It's no good, I have to get on with it, even if all I do is brainstorm conversations between characters that I end up crossing out. I'll let you know how I get on.