200 words down; 1,800 to go. Crap.
The sound of a wooden bucket clattering at the bottom of a suddenly empty wordwell is a fearsome thing. It’s also hard to figure: I know from experience that I’m more than capable of telling this story. But it just ain’t coming. And the piece is due tomorrow.
Ah, well. I’ll get it done somehow. I always do. But this isn’t much fun.