I really don't think I need to explain this. (Click to view it larger.) My life is a sad, sad circle of giving myself excuses on why I shouldn't be writing.
It's a wonder I get anything done. I type a line. Stare into space. Make hand motions. Eat a handful of pretzels. Read what I wrote last time. Read it again. Edit it. Read it again. Realize I haven't actually written anything today.
Ahh. Should I be writing now? Yes. But some things are easier said than done.
"What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that a writer is working when he’s staring out the window."
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