The thing that’s not called writers block

I’m back. From two weeks and two thousand miles in Turkey where I have seen things fit to make even my hair curlier. I started with well meaning intentions of keeping my travel journal (thank god I resisted buying a sexy new one). Within twenty four hours the intentions had become ‘As long as I keep some notes my photos will help to fill the gaps’. Within seventy two hours I was thirty six behind. Hot, thirty eight degrees (where does that tiny round symbol hide on the keyboard?), getting tired from not sleeping on board hard beds and rising too early. Because we need to get moving ahead of the traffic, because we have to get there before the cruise ship spillage, because we have three hundred kilometres today, making me crabby, I’m on holiday right? Right but you didn’t want to lie on a beach G.

The damn bus was not conducive to writing legibly. That’s not true; San managed it because she can form beautifully neat words. I’ve seen opium fields, Troy, the Blue Mosque, temple cats, those hideous cruise ships sail into port like floating mounds stuffed with three thousand termites. I’ve met an Aspergic American, a beautiful young woman from Pakistan who had fled a ten month abusive arranged marriage and I have forced a smile from the grumpiest Istanbullu Maitre D’ imaginable. I went to the house where the Virgin Mary is reputed to have ended her days on this earth and shamefully touched immeasurably old artefacts with ‘Do not touch’ signs beside them. Emeralds the size of my fist dazzled me when rain fall like the Sunderbans trapped me inside Topkapi. So why am I not writing these stories? There is enough material to keep me occupied for months. Writers block doesn’t exist does it? If I was dedicated, I would be writing at any spare moment, anyplace. So maybe I’m just lazy, maybe I’m just not a writer. Not true, I am and I just have to do it – to write on through the dribble and find the discipline.