I’ve been having a crisis of self-confidence lately. It’s a disaster, really. As if the universe has been conspiring against me and everything that I thought was right is actually turning out to be wrong. Seemingly, so. Thus my shying away from the blank page, the notebook and even the tired old articles at work as I’ve been afraid of what I’m putting on page is shite. I keep telling myself that it’ll pass, but will it? The only thing any God forsaken writer can do in a slump like this is soldier on like a devil on doomsday with hope that by continuing to write, things will eventually get better. Really, it’s the process of breaking through the cellophane to get to the next level, but cellophane can be suffocating when you get up close and personal with it. At least, that’s what I think is happening. But thought can be a tricky thing if it sits on something for a while too long. I’ve been cramming so much new information into my brain as I write a new piece of work, it’s making me dizzy, forgetful, confused, sleepy, hell it’s probably making me looney too.