My thoughts are huddled together like cavemen during a thunderstorm. They are all in the back of the cave next to a rendering of a bison who has been poked with so many spears that he resembles a porcupine, and they do not want to come out.
What I do when I write usually feels more like channeling than a thought process. My ideas organize themselves, and I dutifully type them or jot them down as they become clear. I might sometimes have to transpose a paragraph by cutting and pasting, or reword a sentence, but the basic structure seems to present itself to me word by word.
That is the way it usually works. Today the only topic I can write about with any clarity seems to be my writer’s block.
Anyone smell irony? I do – and it smells not so much like chicken as it does roast bison.