I remember seeing a documentary about Ridley Scott where his sons complained that he’d rearrange the furniture in their house every weekend that he was home. When asked about this, he said he felt that he was being followed by a Black Dog and, if he didn’t stop moving, the dog would get him.

This Black Dog is a staple of British folklore. An apparition, signifying death. A fear of stagnation that’s driven him his whole life. The burning desire to be out there, creating movies – a spectral force, pushing him along.

So where’s my Black Dog? Where are the hellhounds on my tail?

I don’t get Writer’s Block.

Seriously – I don’t get people who whinge about being creatively blocked. It’s a no-brainer. Either you’re feeling creative or you’re not, in which case, go and do something else until you get your mojo back.

What I do get is Writer’s Laze.

I’m riffing on Kevin Smith here, but I totally know what he means. I could sit and stare at the computer for hours OR… hmm… that sofa looks damn comfortable and NCIS is on tonight. I’m like a kid with attention-deficit. I turn the computer on, fire-up Final Draft, get a coffee and… oh look – shiny things!

And that’s the end of the night. No writing done.

So where’s my Barghest? Black Shuck? The Hound of the bloody Baskervilles?

Eh?

Well… I’m waiting…

Sod it. Abby’s about to crack the case. I’ve got shit to do.