Step One: Underpants

While I know the answer is to write, to simply keep priming the pump until things start to flow again, there's a deep reticence to get started.

Once I start it's like riding a bike--in that it constantly feels like when I first learned to ride a bike, precariously balanced, lurching between too fast and not fast enough, and the only thing keeping me from a wide swath of gravel ground into my skin is sheer dumb fucking luck.

So I aim for a patch of grass and ditch it.  And then I don't write for a couple weeks.

Which would be okay, as a life, if I didn't have this upwelling of pressure, these images and thoughts and all the jenk and churning seafoam that I know comes out as stories when the pipes are flowing.  When they aren't thunking and juddering and spitting, full of air and rusty backflow.

I need Burgess Meredith to come kick my ass and make me drink the goddamned raw eggs already.