I am blocked.
Blocked like so many drains in New Orleans.
I'm not quite sure what to do about it other than write things. Unimportant things of no consequence. Like this. Just to get myself flowing, so to speak.
It's not working.
I'm supposed to be writing two plays. Neither are happening. Blocked, like I say. Blockety blocked blocked blocked.
But then I got a bit inspired. Started writing a short film. Was going well. Really well. I thought, by gosh, at this rate I could I have it finished by this afternoon. That was three days ago. And the two policemen have got no further with their enquiry at all. Andre Breton is trying to organise the Surrealists and Pitcairn is still standing around in Lexington, trying to understand why everyone's started brawling.
Might have a cup of tea. That usually helps.