slacking

I am so cross with myself, in a very British fashion of course, because lack of discipline has meant I have broken my resolve, Dear Blog, to make regular entries into you (take that as you like). No excuses apart from idleness and endless Scramble/Solitaire/Word Challenge games on Facebook, in fact anything rather than concentrate on the task in hand.
Except I don't want you to be a task, I want you to be a galvanising force that opens up some disused synapses and gets my once fertile imagination flowing again.
I used to be capable of enormous imaginary clarity,full of vivid imagery and a group of characters who lived out their lives in independent, glorious living technicolour. They played their scenes across the screen in the frontal lobe of my brain and I simply recorded what I saw, heard, felt as fast as my little fingers could wield the pencil.
Then, as life became increasing complicated and other peoples' needs took precedence, I made the fatal mistake of thinking I could defer recording to a later date. I let other matters deflect my focus.
Fool that I am!
The scenes paled, the characters lost their clarity and now I struggle to maintain any sort of focus and depth. I read my drafts and shudder at their inanity and shallowness. Eyes open or closed, the screen is clouded at best and, at worst,blank.
Perhaps it's age or the combined effects of years of various chemicals meant to calm my fractured emotions, that have not only taken the edge off but blunted my fantasy-life so effectively it gives me no solace,escape or artistic release.
My latest fictional embryo lurches from frenzied scribblings to a slack few lines penned with lethargy. My advice to my daughter to keep her literary efforts honed through regular exercise, independent of a fickle muse, smack me between the eyes.
Take your own advice woman!
And also decide what it is you are trying to achieve - an ego trip based on personal fantasy or something that has a message, something useful. The conundrum is deciding what useful is. Am I deluding myself by believing I might have something to say or even whether anyone could possibly want to listen/read my ramblings. I have some good ideas - I don't thing it's too egotistical to say that - but unfortunately I struggle to make them cohere or maintain a consistent power. They seem like random strands, each interesting in their own right but I am failing to make the connections that would give them substance and staying power.
Someone once told me I was on the cusp of either being effective artistically or falling into the pit of the dilettante - perish the thought - and the terror is I have seen so much wither away through neglect and lack of perseverance that I may have done irreparable damage. I know I have lost some of my physical, tactile agility and so producing a picture or design is an enormous challenge but I have to believe that with "brain training" I can re- connect with an organ that dashes hither and thither and channel it again into acuteness and passion.
Andrew Thorpe and his three sirens may still have a future if I can shake off a few inhibitions and maintain enough anonymity to free myself from the constrictions of the person other people think I am ( or should be).
Perhaps I have the right to indulge myself and my own personal fantasies and at the same time create something other people might enjoy.
Watch this space.