Write on

I am really, really tired. The sort of tired where you're hungry but you're too exhausted to pop into the kitchen and microwave something. The sort of tired where you can't quite be bothered to turn off the TV, even though America's Next Top Extreme Makeover Idol is on. The sort of tired where I should really be going to bed instead of writing this.

But the thing is, after a couple of totally separate conversations with a couple of good friends within the last two days, I've decided to redouble my writing efforts. I love my Plog, and although my lifestyle often means it's not feasible to write every day, perhaps I should try and write more words when I do write. I've previously tried to write a novel, but realised quite quickly that I wasn't very good at it. I tried to write a sitcom but couldn't be arsed with characters or plot. I had some luck with Erica writing some (halfway decent) sketches... then a few months later they turned up (better executed) by Catherine Tate. Not suggesting for a moment that there was any thieving going on (unless she happened to be on holiday with us when we were writing), but there were a lot of similarities in some of the stuff we wrote, which meant we'd seem like plagiarists - or not very good imitators at best. I've tried a "comedy novel", but without a plot, it drifts aimlessly.

It's a bit like being set homework by your English teacher. I would always get pretty high marks in English; with two parents who taught English, correct adjectival hyphenation and a love of reading had been drummed into me from a pretty young age. I think they used to make me spell onomatopoeia for the entertainment of dinner party guests. (Sometimes this helped distract them from Mrs Nunn's "tuna surprise" - the surprise usually being a layer of apples or something.)

I digress. I generally got high marks in English, with one exception: when we were set work such as, "write anything you like - a poem, a play, an essay - it's up to you". Then I would sit at the kitchen table, one arm along the radiator, as was my favourite homework position, rough book in hand, pencil at the ready... Saturday would pass. Sunday would start ebbing on. I would start a jokey poem about a hamster, and abandon it an hour in. I would decide to write a poem about a thunderstorm, and would give up when I realised I'd run out of words to describe clouds. Memorably, once I wrote about a swan, but that is perhaps a story for another time.

As the weekend ticked by, I would get more and more frantic; not only had I not written anything good yet, but I only had 18 hours left until it had to be handed in. More than once there were tears. Usually my dad's, as I forced him to re-read the nineteenth heart-wrenching draft of "Annie the Anorexic".

And of course, I couldn't bear to get anything lower than an "A-". Once (please don't tell anyone) I got a "B++". I remember it as "Black Tuesday".

Give me a solid essay question: "Fair is foul and foul is fair: how true of this is Macbeth?" or "Which is the greater tragedy, Othello or Death of a Salesman?" or "Why the fuck did I make you read Mansfield Park for A-level? Discuss." Fine. Not a problem. An "A" grade would land back on my desk eventually.

But staring at that blank piece of paper that could literally be anything... (Except a paper plane; I've never been able to make those). Terrifying. So what I'm saying is I'd love to write. I'd love to be a writer. But I don't know where to start.

So if any of you have plotlines or characters you'd like to donate, please send to the usual address. In the meantime, I shall keep on Plogging.