I want to write. It’s nearly 2 am, I’ve got a headful of static, sitting here with the window open, enjoying the chill, and I’m trying to further in on the first of these monologues, and I just can’t hear it. It’s like it’s being mumbled on the edge of my hearing. A secret that she doesn’t want to give up. I’m on the verge of starting over, listening for the opening sentences again, and letting it go somewhere new…

This is the really annoying bit about writing, you know? Where you’ve got the ideas, and you know where you’re going, and the words just sit up there, dug in behind your eyes and refusing to budge.