So I mope into the main house where my housemates are watching The Soup and eating dinner, and I mope onto the couch where they're sitting, and I mope over to my best friend (moping as a verb is where you're boneless and kind of puddle around, like with pseudopods made of sorrow) with my head on a pillow by her hip and she's all "What's wrong?" and I'm all, "I don't like anything I'm writing."
She's all, "This book, or that book?"
And I'm all, "All books. All the books in the world."
And she looks down at me, haloed by her short pink hair and asks, "Would you like me to tell you how this goes?" and I'm all, "Sure," confident that in the depths of my mope, no one will understand my inchoate despair.
She says, "So for a few days you complain that you don't know what to write, and that you can't write, or you hate writing, and then after that you stay up for five days straight writing, and all of a sudden things are better again."
I consider this for a moment. I've lived with her through two and a half books of my life, and we've been BFF's for probably over ten years now. I've officially lost count. We've gotten each other through divorces and weddings and illnesses and awesomeness. If she, objectively, says that's what I do, then that's probably what I do. Even if when I'm moping into the very fabric of her couch I can't see it.
"I like that. Except for the part where you make me sound manic," I say. "But I like it."
"I'm also going to blog about this."
"Go ahead. Want to come to dance class with me?"
"Nope. I already went to the gym."
And then I mope back to my room, and blog, and turn on pandora really loud and see if tonight's the night.