I have been stalled in book-blogging Howl’s Moving Castle by an inability, even after tearing apart my bookcases, file drawers, and boxes of filled spiral notebooks — and I do mean filled — how often does a spiral notebook have every single page covered in handwritten scrawl? — to locate not one word on the next paragraph of Chapter One, in which the hat-shop gossip turns to what’s going on at Cesari’s, and Lettie in particular.
Carry on without any notes, then? Perish the thought.
This is enraging. Frustrating. But typical. Meanwhile, another month has gone by. I am one month closer to being dead of whatever gets me in the end, and not one jot or tittle closer to any of my writing goals. I don’t even have enough energy to hate myself.
In all the annals of literature and art, has anyone mentioned what an unplugged drain creativity is? They have? Oh, right. I should have known.
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