One thing that anyone who has risen from the dead would notice is the surprising drudgery of a new beginning, along with the overwhelming freedom of what can be.
Another day goes by without any writing done. I still have time to make up for the pagefill before the day is over. The wicked thing is I don't want to. I don't feel like it.
It's not the first time I don't feel like writing. Normally I would be able to trudge on no problem.
I just wish she hadn't looked at me the way she did every time I see her. We barely have a chance to talk after that day. Any construal in the meantime, if I let it, could easily make a dash either way.
Maybe I should just scrap the alter ego and resume my true identity as a thick-glassed writer with no life beyond his imagination. Trying to have a life and write at the same time is too damn hard, if at all possible. Every bit of energy disbursed in life is detrimental to the work in progress, as is already evident.
The pill bottle of life's little quandaries reads: Apply on fictional characters only. Not suitable for writers at work.
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