Usually when I write, the words roll out ahead of me. Sometimes I have to juggle the narrative, tweak the structure, and I edit remorselessly, but generally the words are sparking like steel in a foundry.
At the moment though, it feels like the words are dead. They’re there, they appear as I write, 1,000 or so every day. But nothing is rolling, nothing is singing, nothing is sparking.
It’s like pushing sand.
I feel like Keaton at the beginning of The Usual Suspects.