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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.

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