Opened Word file a couple of hours ago, figuring maybe to work on the 100 or so chapters of the eight or 10 novels under construction for the past 35 years and discovered:
I don’t have anything to say.
Priscilla said it will all work out, this concussion or big head slam against the tile. “Just give it time.”
One of the first things I said after waking up from the aneurysm in 1986 was, “I haven’t finished my stories.” Actually it was more like “I … have … n’t … fi … nish … ed … my … sto … ries.”
Well, I still haven’t. I do have three novel-size transcripts (is that the right word?), 200,000 words; 92,000 words; and 86,000 words, plus a bunch of individual chapters on other things that are not in any kind of organization.
This not having anything to say stuff really sucks.