I’ve been stuck in a particularly long episode of writers’ block lately and the stuff i have been able to come up with has been far less than I know I’m capable of. It’s most probably because life is going so well. I’ve come to realise that my best work is written when under the influence of depression, drugs or alcohol and at a time when everything else is falling spectacularly to pieces. It brings to light that stigma that a truly great writer must also be tortured in some way, and if that’s true, is my life doomed be a constant battle between a life’s passion for the written word and my hearts’ desire to be happy?
