Dot Com

I know you'd never guess it (ahem), but really, computers and me are not the best of friends. They know more about me than I'll ever know about them. Scary really. 

I'm still slightly scared of the "Esc" key in case I escape from something that then turns out to be irretrievable. 

I have no idea what most of the "F" keys do, except that "F1" is supposed to mean Help! I've tried using it when my coffee cup runs dry, but nothing seems to happen. 

It took me two months from when I started to work out how to add links, and even longer to sort out pictures.

And editing HTML? You might as well ask me to count from one to one hundred in Xhosa. 

But give me a chance. I mean, it's only taken me thirty-several years to work out that painting a flat, square chunk of wall isn't all that difficult. Neither, for that matter, is dropping a gallon of paint all over your laminate floor, but more on that maybe some other time.

Nevertheless, I have finally (and probably two plus-years later than I should have done), organised my own domain. So, no longer need you type all the long winded addresses should you want to find my ramblings, you can just go and ask for......... *DRUMROLL* ..........

InsomniacMedic.com

I shan't put a link on here, as you're already here, and that would be weird. 

For now, you will see no difference, and if you head for the old address you'll still end up here. The blog will still appear on the blogger host, but hopefully, some big things may follow. In the meantime, thanks for visiting again and again to read the rantings, ramblings and general musings of a sleep-deprived wannabe writer. 

Writer's Block

There are about half a dozen unfinished posts in the drafts folder, and I can't finish any of them. I'm not sure I'm enough of an author to really call it writer's block, but it's definitely some sort of block. Dozens of ideas are scribbled in tiny notes at the back of my diary, hieroglyphics decipherable only to skilled Egyptologists and myself, and all are waiting to be converted into normalspeak. For some reason, this week I just can't seem to do it.

There are tragedies, traumas, and tears, there are even some simple smiles. Yet, at the moment, I can't bring any of them to life. So in an effort to break the block, I thought I'd write about it. Some posts take me minutes to compose, some take days, even weeks from when I start them until they see the light of day.

Some deal with unspeakable horrors, with the volume turned down, some are simple stories glammed up for effect, but all have one thing in common. They're all about my brief encounters with people, how these people affect me, how their lives affect me, and once in a while, I hope, how I affect their lives too.

I'm selfish really. I write this blog, first and foremost, for me. It's a record of things I've seen and done, an outlet for frustrations, and an inlet for support from my readers. At the same time, however, I want to let you, the reader, into a world hidden from general view. And to do that, I try to involve you in this world, to make you feel a part of it, hopefully make it seem like you can see the sights, hear the sounds, sense the emotions.

Sometimes I can do it. Sometimes, like this week, the hieroglyphics at the back of the diary remain a mystery, even to me.