It is a quiet evening around the ol’ humble abode (or, HA-1, as I call it sometimes). The only sound is that of the poor air conditioner trying unsuccessfully to keep HA-1 on the upper end of comfortable.
The cat has given up and retired to her tower to scowl at the world. And why shouldn’t she? What has the world ever done for her? Except give her free luxury accommodations, a fully paid health plan, all the food she can eat, and a crack team of servants to do her every bidding. Of course she is bitter. Who wouldn’t be?
I’ve got a little music going on the ol’ laptop (or LT-1, as I sometimes call it). The TV is off. There are no distractions.
There is absolutely nothing keeping me from writing.
Except, of course, that I have absolutely nothing to write about. The part of my brain that is responsible for writing packed its bags earlier and left, leaving no forwarding address.
So what’s a poor writer to do when the will to write has left one high and dry?
Well, you just read it.