I has one. Not an alcohol induced one – but the hangover that comes with it being December.

I wrote like a fiend in November, worrying about word counts and goals and the story (which is so much fun you guys!) and now…there is nothing.

I mean the book isn’t done, so there’s still a good 40,000 or so words to be written, but the immediacy isn’t there. I took yesterday off from writing. Not on purpose, but I just spent the day staring at a blank screen.

Today was the third weekday in a row that I didn’t get up at five – slept through my alarm – to write.

And once again, there’s that damnable blank screen. Other than some mild internet surfing fuckery that doubled as procrastination, I didn’t spend a moment in November thinking about writer’s block.

I don’t believe it writer’s block (for me personally, your mileage may vary, etc.). I either write or I don’t.

And today, I feel sluggish and slow and a little depressed, like coming off a long bender where I just want to sleep and let my metaphorical brain liver (ew?) do it’s job cleansing me of all the extra words I ingested and excreted (this is a disgusting metaphor, is it not?) over the last month.

I want to curl up in a ball and watch Buffy or read romance novels or both and not worry about writing or work or anything else that starts with W.

Instead, I need to put some words on the page. And go for a walk. That always is a better cure than avoidance, isn’t it? And then tonight, if I still crave Buffy and a book (or anything else that starts with B), I can have that then.

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