There comes short and brutal little periods where I am incapable of writing anything.
Words don’t come, they stay locked away or they just never existed.
This is a problematical thing when I’ve decided that I have to write every single day, whether I want to or not.
So I have drag each word out in painful extractions that take too long time. Here comes one word, followed by a second ripped out from some pulpy deep-rooted place. One by one they come out and I line them up on the white page.
It’s writing at its most unpleasant; where it’s all I can do to keep the sentences going. There’s no joy in it; just a mechanical process to get this task done. It’s writing where I keep glancing at the word count.
The only good thing is that I can be done very soon. I think I’ve written almost enough to satisfy the requirements I’ve set up for myself during this month.
And we’re done.