Do you need a plot when you begin a novel? Where the hell are we going?
Stare out the window. Slowly melt into the realization that your creative muscle has atrophied — whatever wit, intelligence and imagination that you may have possessed has evaporated, you’ve got nothing. Lay this gently atop the neat stack of failures that you’ve built in the corner of your soul. The curtains look nice. Beer or wine? Or maybe a cocktail, it is Friday, after all.
Check stats. Write a list.
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