After seven hours of taking a melon baller to my highly-trained and regularly effusive imagination and scraping out not a single word (let me repeat here, NOT A SINGLE WORD) toward the Six Brothers, I called my mother, confessed to being a waste of her DNA, grabbed a hoe and hacked to death a gang of weeds in my flower garden.
That was my Tuesday.
How was yours?
Yesterday I sucked so bad at being a writer it was absurd.
At one point I was literally clawing at my head, trying to pull, yank, physically cajole my freaking imagination into giving me something. Anything. Heck, I would have taken a “Jack ran up Bunker Hill” at that point.
But, nope. I got nothing.
I tried all my writing tricks that usually drag at least a 100 words of useable fluff-smut from my head.
Again, I came up dry.
The frustration, I feared, was going to be interminable, scarring, a bloody mess to clean up…
So I called my mommy and turned to the hoe.
Absurdity, thy name is Chloe Stowe.