Sitting here playing the Anti-Nowhere League's first album, I can hardly recall how uncomfortable this afternoon's writing process was. This seems to be a fairly common occurrence, actually. I'll wake up, grumble, procrastinate in one way or another, settle down to write another bit of the chapter, grumble some more, struggle to write, rest my head on my crossed arms, sigh, wrestle with my writing, squeeze out just enough to call the day productive, doubt the quality of my work, check it over, eventually make my peace with it, close the document, do other stuff, sit down to write my blog entry, play some punk rock, and forget how frustrating it was earlier in the day. But I did get something done.
For tomorrow: Try to write a bit or, failing that, read a bit of the Elizabeth Costello criticism.