Bone tired. So cold and tired that the words don't even seem to make an impression, they just slip off the glass and slide down to the floor. I need to make you understand, so I'm trying as hard as I can. There doesn't seem to be much fiction here, and you used to be so good at it. Now, there's nothing, just words on a page and you sitting here frustrated, trying to figure out what's going on.
But at least there are words on the page. That's important. If anything is making you put words on the page, then that's good, even if you're going nowhere. I mean, you've been plugging away at this for two days and you've got nothing to show for it. It's really not moving at all. You've spent two days revving your engines, but you haven't even left the garage yet.
Too soon. It's always too soon, isn't it. You always want more, and there's never more in the jar. The knife scrapes the sides, and that's that. At least you'll get some nice tweets out of it. Remember who you were, once, and what you once did. Trim your finger nails and try again. You've got the whole month. Keep trying.
