I have the chapter outlined: hell, I have the next four chapters outlined, and the last one I have rough ideas about. It’s just a matter of getting the words done.
But they won’t come. I went back to the beginning of the chapter to read it through and tweak parts and see if I could get the words unstuck. I haven’t been able to get all the way through it, because something’s just awkward, and I can’t pinpoint it, and I know I won’t be able to go forward until I can.
So I go through my checklist of things that make writing difficult for me:
Am I ill? No.
Have I slept enough? Yep!
Have I eaten? I had delicious Italian with my dad a few hours ago, and I’m still comfortable from that, though no longer in danger of a food coma. I’m good on that front.
Do I have more pressing obligations that I feel guilty about not accomplishing? Nope, I’ve finished work for the day, I’ve made good progress, I’m good on that front.
Am I physically uncomfortable? Well, the temperature’s fine, but my back and upper arms kind of think trying the plank exercise yesterday was a bad idea. It’s not bad, though, and not distracting while I’m doing nothing more strenuous than typing.
Am I thirsty? Huh, a little bit. I should get a drink.
Is my environment distracting? Well, I’m home alone in the apartment, and it smells nice because we have candles that make it smell like a bakery with a vanilla fetish. I have music on quiet, and adequate light, and my comfy chair, but there’s a cardboard box in the corner from a thing we unpacked last night, and dishes in the sink that I know I need to deal with.
So I’m going to go do dishes and drink water and recycle and hope that when I’m done this stupid fucking chapter stops being hard to write. If that fails I may knit and read for a while.