Today I paid the rent, took the roomie’s car through emissions (she’s out of town), worked out, went to the library, and mailed Taro to DAW. I also moved the dinner table back into the kitchen, washed all the stuff to go back on the kitchen shelves, and spent a couple hours consolidating a lot of randomly-recorded story notes into my index card system. And I cut my toenails.
What I didn’t do was write. Anything at all. Why? I don’t know. I never even got to where I felt like I could try. I couldn’t even remember more than a very vague impression of what it was I wanted to write.
I have nineteen different things I want to work on. And I couldn’t remember what happened next in any of them. How sad is that?