I’ve just spent the last hour trying to think of names for the two main characters in a new short story.  What a waste of time!  I wanted to make notes for the story;  instead I got stuck on what I was going to call the prince and princess. 
 
Why is it so difficult?  There was a time when names used to just jump into my head.  I never worried about whether a name was cool or not.  It was just a name.  A name that seemed almost preformed was Gomenzi, anti-hero of my novel “Transference.”  I was sure I had heard it somewhere before because it felt familiar.  It doesn’t, however, seem to exist.  It doesn’t come up at all if you Google it – aside from my novel “V. Gomenzi”.  These days I Google all names to make sure there isn’t some famous person with that name, although this is only true of names with surnames;  my characters often only have one name, particularly if they are gracing the pages of a sci-fi story.
 
Other names that have leapt into my head are: 
Angelica Zippoli
Alenka Koie
Claire Halward, with parents Nick and Karin
Dett (who had a number of variations such as Detter, Detteth, Detteria and Besredetth)
Sistia Scarpora
Yani
Domitian (okay, I stole that – but who would think to use it now!)
Ziann Rama
 
The list goes on! 
 
Recently, in the last year or so, my pool of imaginary names seems to have run dry.  The heroine in my short story “The Crystal Vision” had so many name changes that sitting here, right now, I can’t actually remember her name.  This is NOT a good sign.  All characters are a part of me, after all;  it’s like not being able to remember part of your own name.  I’ve just checked:  her name is Lightness.  Urgh.  No wonder I couldn’t remember it.  It isn’t really a proper name at all (her mirror-twin is called Darkling, which is even more ridiculous).
 
I’m currently doing an enormous edit on an enormous novel I “finished” three years ago.  The main character in this has not only had her hair colour change but also her name – at least seven times.  I really, really wanted to call her Igraine.  And this is where my problems start:  the names I love are invariably mythical or made-up and used in famous novels.  Igraine was King Arthur’s mum.  The name has pretty much never been used for anything else (unless you’re a trendy parent, the kind to saddle your kid with names like Merlin or Frodo or Galadriel).  I worked on it for an age and eventually came up with my own made-up name, Ilgria.  When the novel was done (at least, I thought it was done), I realised I didn’t like the name at all.  My daughter agreed, saying she thought it made the character sound old.  Being highly enamoured with Tolkien names, I pinched a word from Elvish and called her Elanen.  My daughter promptly mispronounced it.  I promptly discarded it.
 
The search went on.  After several more attempts, I came up with Alegria, which is basically just Allegra dressed up a bit.  When I started my Big Red Edit (which has currently turned into a bit of a rewrite), I realised it was horrible and had to wrack my brains all over again.  Finally, I hit on Elanor.  It sounds a bit like all the names I’ve been wanting to call her, so is ideal.  And it’s pretty!  But it’s also a very famous name from, yes, Tolkien, being both a flower and Sam Gamgee’s eldest daughter (she even has her own Wiki page).  I eventually settled on a variant of the spelling and my heroine is now called Ellinor.
 
But you know what?  I don’t like it. 
 
While that name-search hangs over my head, my new short story, which I dreamed up all of two weeks ago, has run aground on the same deserted beach.  It doesn’t help that she’s a princess and he’s a prince.  The ONLY name that seems to go with prince is Charming.  Yes.  Really.  Prince Charming.  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
 

I recently took several weeks off work.  It was bliss.  It was heavenly.  By the last ten days, I felt like myself again – for the first time in YEARS.  I can’t remember when last I achieved that state of total immersion in writing.  By the end of it, I was on top of my game:  writing well;  thinking clearly;  imagination beginning to operate again.
 
Only a few hours back in my Real World job and all the magic is gone.
“I’ll be fine,”  I thought, gritting my teeth bravely.  “I feel strong and capable and can deal with the soul-sucking people I work with.  They won’t drag me down.”
They won’t!
They won’t!

I am now so far down I can’t see any way up. 
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You should know I only work in my Real World job two days a week.  This doesn’t seem like much.  My heart bleeds for those writers working full time and scarcely getting a moment to really get some writing going.  But then, there is the possibility that they actually enjoy their Real World job and don’t feel destroyed by it.  The two days though are utterly soul destroying and seem to drain every lost drop of energy from my body.  By Tuesday evening, I’m in total zombie-mode.  It takes me all day Wednesday to recover;  any writing I try to do is usually a waste.  So having a few weeks off has been fabulous.  I was dreading the return but never expected it to be this bad.
 
Today has been a trial like no other.  It’s if someone (God? Fate? The Powers That Be That Like A Laugh?) has set me the toughest test:  how to get through this day without losing my joy.  By eleven o’clock, I was on the verge of tears.  It’s all just small stuff, but it adds up.
 
First my manager welcomed me back by telling me all the disasters that have befallen the library in my absence, including the desk manager who had a motorbike accident and a colleague who has had to rush to Wales because her mother is dying (though she’s been dying for a while now) and has to negotiate the poor transport because of the flooding.  It’s close to impossible to work here with only two but we can’t get our usual Monday afternoon staff member because one of the other libraries has virtually no staff.

None of this is new.  Staff are forever sick, having accidents or dealing with huge dramas in their lives.  It's just that it's ALWAYS like this.  It's SO depressing.

Add to that the following:

My manager is sitting next to me at the Issue Desk which means I can’t breathe.

It’s Reading Week so that are very few students – at least it would have been someone to talk to.

I’m doomed to do admin work all day.  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

The book display this week is about the Black Death and staff have enthusiastically made black rats out of paper.  Nice.

The heating in the building is off.  Normally I would find that quite a relief as it’s always too hot.  In fact, because it’s too hot, I usually wear very lightweight clothing.  With the heating off, I’m now freezing.  By 11.30, I gave up and put my huge winter coat on.  So now I’m sitting at the issue desk looking like a duvet.

I got my milk mixed up.  Cows’ milk goes in the weeny milk bottle marked C.  Soya milk goes in the unmarked bottle.  I mean, fuck, that’s easy isn’t it?  But when I had my Barley Cup this morning, which I can only tolerate with soya milk, it had cows’ milk in it and was vile. 

I’d forgotten how utterly appalling the toilets are in this building.

I’d forgotten how poisonous the LED lighting is.  My eyes are red and bleeding with pain and I’ve only been back for one morning.

But worst of all, I checked my Annual Leave and I only have two days left until October.  Two fucking days.  Dear God.  Dear Fates.  Dear Powers That Be Having A Laugh. 
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How am I going to get through this year?