My little tortoise, Lightning, has been working on getting through the space between the chair and the speaker for the past ten minutes.
No whining, no cursing. Just working on a problem he came up with for himself, utterly unnecessary in the larger scheme of things to solve, but clearly vital to him in the moment.
I relate.
That's how the writing is going these days for me. That's the stage of book I'm at: stuck, in a tight space of my own creation, plodding away with no discernible progress.
But then, as I was writing this, thinking well, this is kind of a depressing little note, isn't it? Lightning turned himself around and went the other direction. No self-criticism at least as far as I can tell, just a decision to try a different route.
For somebody with a brain the size of a pignoli nut and no published work to his name, he has some pretty sharp insights to share about the writing process. Okay, Lightning. I get it. Fine. I'll try that.
OTOH, if he is so brilliant, why is he now trying to get through the wall behind my desk?