Some nights are simply a bust.

Wrote a few hundred words. Got the sense they were probably the wrong few hundred words. Stopped. Pondered skipping to next scene. Remembered that next scene isn’t the scene we thought was next, because another scene has to happen first. Tried to figure out how to stage that one. Failed. Attempted to step back and regroup. Brain refused. Contemplated doing more reading for the book instead of writing. Brain refused that, too.

Not yet tired enough for sleep. Not sure what to do.

Today’s been one of those days. But it ain’t over until I get sleepy, so I have to find something the petulant three-year-old now ruling my grey matter is interested in doing until that happens.

I doubt it will be anything productive. Because this just isn’t a productive night.

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