…

Not a word came out that was worth repeating. That’s the problem with monkeys: their typewriter skills are awful. Before I erased everything that came before this, I had written a full page of stream-of-consciousness dribble. The monkey statement (I admit, I have a fascination with the million monkeys creating Shakespeare), the last in that exercise, was the only thing worth saving (and just barely). Inspiration is not finding me today: I’m hiding pretty well behind the plushy chairs.

That I was able to write even a single decent paragraph surprises me. I have started and restarted new documents at least fifty times. At times like this, the only way to say anything is to shove my hand all the way down my gullet and wiggle my fingers until something comes up. My stomach is empty today, lacking in even the semblance of a toasty treat.

I figured if I hung around long enough, something of value would be pasted to the page. And here it is:

Okay, I lied. I thought there was something there, something waiting to be shaken loose, but I was wrong. There’s nothing there today. No birthday surprises, no jack-o-lanterns, nothing. It was a mistake coming here. Two hours of nothingness.