The fallacy of writer's block

What a crappy, crappy day. I don’t really believe in writer’s block - just force yourself to write SOMETHING. However if it does exist, today I have it. Maybe I’m tired after finishing work at eleven last night, it could be that I’m distracted by moving house, or perhaps it’s just that the planets aren’t in alignment; Mars isn’t parallel with Venus in my house of Doing Some Fucking Work. Or something. Either way the result is the same: my page is empty. I’ve done some reading, searching for 90s novels for adaptation, and then have written one lonesome paragraph for the Guardian short story competition.

It reached thirty-seven degrees, the weathermen said. It was hot everywhere. Indoors was stale and thick with black dots of flies, driving neighbours onto patchy front lawns. They draped themselves languidly around the timed spurts and dribbles of hosepipes for relief. Outdoors the sun throbbed down and sat fat and heavy over the grass. Buses were the worst. PVC stuck to bare legs, leaving red grooves on bare thighs and partially-clad bottoms as they peeled away from seats with a sticky slurp.

And I think it sucks. Maybe I shout write off this afternoon and watch some telly. It’s about the only thing I will have bloody written.