Right now I’m sitting in Starbucks with Facebook open behind MS Word—because that’s how I work—and even though the couple of manuscripts I’ve tinkered with over the last year or so have good starts, nothing worthwhile is coming to me. I often sit here and hope that things I overhear make something in my brain click, but today is a quiet day at the ‘Bucks. Lots of people, but most of them are here alone and even the people who are obviously here together aren’t really talking. They’re studying or reading or working on laptops with lit-up little apples on the lids.
|If you Google Q-tip, this guy pops up|
Folks, when I would prefer country music, you know whatever is playing is truly, deeply, awfully, wickedly horrible.
I may also be a little distracted by the guy at the table next to me; I can see in my peripheral vision that he keeps looking over and staring at me. He’s either enthralled by the fact that the 50+ year old woman next to him really needs to shave, or he’s totally digging on one of my chins.
Or maybe it’s the goosebumps. I should have brought a sweatshirt in with me.
And here we have it. Four hundred words about not having anything to write about. And hell yes, I counted them. Twice. Sort of. Maybe.