It was a bizarre day ...
... although it started out so promising. I can't even put my finger on what was so bizarre about it. I'm competely sure it's job-related. Just a weird, weird day. Possibly I'm overdosing on sensory input.

I remember writer's block from my sportswriter days. It never happened when I had to write a 16-inch story in 16 minutes, because those were easy. Write the facts -- who scored what, what they said after the game, who the teams play next -- and then, if you have time and the available brain cells, pop something clever on top to sucker people into reading it. It was a little tougher on non-game stories, when you had to actually sift through your notebook and determine which angle would actually hold up all the way through the story. And if you didn't get it by the third try, it probably meant you didn't have a story, which meant you wasted a lot of time and you were going to Look Bad in the Eyes of Your Superiors. I hated that part.

Now, the only writing I do (other than the aforementioned memos) is here. If I'm suffering through a block -- and on this night, I am -- I can't fake it. I have no facts around which to build anything. All I have is my brain, and right now, it's mush.

Good advice I once received: "When you don't have a story, the least you can do is keep it short." So shall this be.