Titivullus the word snatcher and other demons.

I am besieged.
I am irritated by the tiny ambush predator that is Titivullus the Wordsnatcher. I search. I know I had the perfect word for that simile - now where has it gone? Whipped away.

I hunt round - where is that enthralling action verb? Gone.

At least that nasty little sneaker-away-with-half-remembered-words can be fought off with the trusty Thesaurus. How do I combat Belphegor who leads me astray with useless but fascinating inventions? I have great difficulty blocking my ears against the Procastination Imps - they speak in the voices of Facebook friends,then lead me off on will o'the wisp tours of Blogland to 'inspire' my writing. I see them wave the highlighter over the how-to books. It is a magic wand and I am enchanted.

But these are the minor citizens of the encircling Pandemonium; the boys at the back of the class. There are far worse.

One she-devil, soft and yielding as a bog, undermines my defences. In my ear she whispers, insinuates, plays on my guilt. She poisons my well: no good as a teacher; no good as a mother; no good as a writer.

These are the heads of my companions catapulted over the battlements. The Spirit of Self-pity wraps her sodden sleeves around me in a familiar embrace.

Despair and her minder Lethargy now lurk behind my shoulders. They offer me their counsel: I don't know what children want to read anymore; I am out of touch; I am too weird.

It is like sand trickling from a drying dune.

But still I stay at my desk and will not surrender.