There’s some kids show on the TV in the living room, the washing machine is going brr, brr, brr, the dyer is humming, the dishwasher is whooshing, Caira is standing here staring at me and Garrett is pounding his head against the floor upstairs (from the sound of things). I’m already stressed about tomorrow and the inevitable fight with my sister, because I told my mother “Shut up and go away” on the topic of disciplining my children (again).

Okay, now there’s some sotted, pre-drunk cunt wandering down the road blaring some off-tune nonsense at the top of his lungs.

Shit, Garrett fell. Doesn’t sound bad. I’ll play deaf.

I’ve been trying to write for the last three hours. I’ve had the Irish version of the Great American Novel kicking around in my head since around 2004. In that time I began and ended an extramarital affair, went through several Best Friends, found my real Best Friend, got married, consummated the marriage, lived in two states in two countries, had two children, several jobs and a minor operation, opened and closed my own photography business, separated from my wife, pondered divorce, plumbed the depths of wallowing self-pity and suicidal depression, lived in a state of pronounced self-loathing, discovered reasons to not hate myself and got myself in gear to go back to school. And, shit, I still can’t write more than a paragraph of two of The Story without hitting a blank, a brick wall.

The premise of my kickass hard science fiction novel is simple: People get into a spaceship, travel from Planet A to Planet B, have peril-filled adventures, overcome hazards both natural and artificial and eventually return to Planet A from Planet B. The cast of characters is spartan and I sidestep the problem of characterization of my protagonist through the magic of author proxy.

Technologically speaking, things are even more cut and dry: I have a plethora of excellent resources (more than just Wikipedia, shut up naysayers!) to draw upon for details. I strongly recommend that anyone even remotely interested in science fiction and space battles pick up the very-much factual Space Weapons, Earth Wars by the RAND Corporation.

All of these resources, all of the time and interest in writing my story and I can’t write but a paragraph before my brain falls over giggling.

Fuck you, brain.

in me

Mark Grealish

Dashing brigand, handsome rapscallion, father, crazy cat lady and the world's greatest lover and liar, living in Galway, Ireland.

2 comments on 'I can’t think':
  • Mi

    June 29, 2011 at 08:19

    This is where I meant to post this:
    Jeez, just reading all that has me tired, never mind doing it all. Sheesh man. Go find a cave for a few months (one with net access preferred of course) & maybe then you might be able to bring your mind back from the brink of squidgy, giggly, gooey melting messiness. O.o I hope all went well with your sis. You’re still posting so I’m guessing you’re still in the land of the living at least. :o) & telling you off about your parenting skills is what parents do. If I had a cent for every time Dad told me I’m a bad parent & that ‘So & so could raise your child better’ I be a multi millionaire at this stage. :o)

  • Mark

    June 29, 2011 at 11:24

    That actually isn’t a problem; we had the same conduct from Mariah’s mum and I didn’t really expect anything else from my own. It’s the fact that she turns around and complains to my sister, who in turn lets rip at me, that is the problem.

    Oh well, we’ll be in Sligo by mid-August. :D

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