Staring into space.

It’s hard to explain what it’s like trying to write when you in no way feel like it. I don’t feel very bright right now (my cold might be part of that). I don’t feel particularly witty. I don’t feel real smart. I don’t feel perceptive or interesting. I’m just kind of sitting here, and I have to string together a thousand words or so that you’re supposed to enjoy reading. Sometimes this whole process doesn’t make a lot of sense. I know more or less what I need to finish the scene, it’s not like I’m scared (my usual emotion when writer’s block sets in), I’m just here. I mean, it’s nine o’clock on a Monday. Who could possibly be interesting right now?