Muffin Tops

Muffin Tops (2009)

my head
is full of gr-
-eat ideas for
blogs, novels, b-
ooks, films. A smor-
-gasbord of creativity, bu-
-rsting to escape, unleash up-
-on the world

but
sadly
they rem-
-ain like m-
-uffin tops, seper-
-ate, isolated, juicy b-
-ut unsubstantial, a tast-
-e of genius, too brief to be
appreciated

If I had to identify one cause for my failure to have won a Booker Prize or Noble Prize for Literature by now I would say it was the blank page.

The tyranny of the blank page!

I have lost count the number of times that the most intriguing of titles and enticing of opening lines have died on the operating table of the blank page. Left to die in an ocean of white; surrounded on all sides by empty margins and unfilled spaces. I, the surgeon, desperately seeking a resuscitating breathe: a quote, a sentence, at the very least a word. Anything that jump-starts the promise of inspiration that originated from a song lyric, snatch of conversation or passage from a book.

The casualty list of the past few days has been disheartening. The emergency ward of my blog folder the site of failure after failure of creative will. Homage to Rufus Wainwright deflated by an afternoon nap, an exploration of movie soundtracks overcome by school work and finally a reflection on education superseded by marking. All these failures are unacceptable: each one fully formed in my head, each on a reminder of my failings as a writer.

Even this entry has been a struggle against the forces of blank pages. A sustained resistance following my poem made proffered terms of safe withdrawal enticing. The desire to end after such a short foray into the creative sector of my brain was only proof of my weakness. I wouldn’t write at all if I didn’t have this blog.

What then would I do?