I know. It's been a while, Loyal Readership of Sad Numbers. But life, as you must know through your empathic telepathy which spans across cyberspace, has been both tough and busy. School, life, school, sleep, life. You know the drill.

The word of the day, I have decided, is stagnant. I cannot resume writing the ending of my bloody, stagnant book. I have tried. I have eked my way through about a thousand words of that infernal epilogue, but each time I do it screams at me about how inadequate and talentless I am and I have to run away. I'm sure you also empathize with this problem, even if you are at the crest of a creative wave. Which I am not. I am definitely being dragged across the seaweed-ridden sandy bottom of my creative ocean. And the worst of it is: I have the premise for a new novel, but it's been done! Well, not the exact premise. But I feel like my stories have all too much in common. A girl marries and finds out that her husband is not what she initially thought. Big whoop. Who cares. No matter the variations.

I should hire a personal assistant who tells me a) that I'm always right, b) what to do at any point of indecision or hopeless inadequacy, and c) not to eat the fudge.