Then I throw my hands in the air all melodramatic-like, shout something about being a hack, and turn on the television.
So far there hasn't been much television. I've been bouncing back and forth between two short stories. One was almost finished before I decided I had wasted the cool setting on a trivial idea. The other I'm afraid I'll break. So I write a few sentences at a time, hoping I'll distract myself long enough to finish something and push past this slump. And then yell at myself for being such a baby.
Anyway. This is the ugly side of my day. I'm not looking for sympathy and it's kind of funny when you think about it. Even when I don't have any real, tangible problems to bemoan, my brain is more than happy to invent something stupid.
I need to find that place outside of myself where I can be objective again. Because right now I can't see the story for the words.