I’ve finished my daily morning grind (pilates, watching Walking Dead episodes again, getting myself and son ready for the day) and I’m now seated at my desk at work, wondering what I should have for lunch.

I know I should be thinking deep thoughts or feeling grateful for something or planning my next ten novels and my business plan for the next five years but my thoughts are still half-formed and deformed, like those weird angry baby monsters from the movie The Brood.

I’m mostly wondering what to have for lunch.

Oddly, these days sometimes turn out to be the most productive.  Once I finally focus and stop thinking about the daily little things I sometimes find that I enjoy writing more.  I don’t honestly believe that there is a great mystery involved in writing something.  I think people just do it everyday or nearly everyday and sometimes you have really good days (or great days, if you are a genius.  I am not a genius) and sometimes you don’t and no one really knows why.

The important thing is that you sat down and did it.  It sounds so simple.  It is simple.

Except when it isn’t.

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