Day Three

But it’s not quite as bad as all that, thank goodness. My hand is trying its best. It’s not its fault. Stickiness is probably not the right word. Tightness, maybe, and perhaps if I keep my hand moving the more chance that it’ll give like a piece of old elastic in a hemline that’s lost its stretch: just one more tug and then it’ll give up the ghost (oops, there I go again with my mixed metaphors!). Seems all I have to do is tell my hand one more time what it’s supposed to do – write – and all the stretch-resistance will disappear. Anyway, that’s the plan, but it would be so much easier if some bright spark invented a machine that could make thoughts jump straight from your head onto the page, wouldn’t it? Attach a few wires to your head and Bob’s your uncle, a whole page of instant thoughts. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about writer’s block and rusty wrists. Now there’s an idea. Would also save a lot of time and make things a lot easier than having to write everything down and invariably get it all wrong. Especially for someone like me, you know, someone who failed Ms Williams’ year-10 English class, who’s always getting tongue-tied and never seems able to find the right words to say at the best of times (“There you go, always putting your foot in your mouth,” mum would have said!). But, after all that, here goes anyway, “Take 2.”