I know now what happens when a writer can’t write. Said writer mopes. She whines. She fidgets and grumps through her days. She stares out the window and counts the flecks textured through the living room carpet. She cries great dripping tears.
When at last she can no longer stand it, she takes her recently operated-on wrist, and with all the wristiness she can muster, she takes to her computer and manages a couple of sentences.
She grits her teeth and takes an extra Advil for all the misery.
She writes a few words of unremarkable drivel, then collapses on the sofa with the back of her hand to her forehead a la Greta Garbo in Camille.
Then her husband brings her a steaming latte and all is better. At least for the moment.
Tomorrow will speak for itself.