Do not a writer make.
I have gorged on deep fry. And no, I do not use that word lightly because I speak of a piece of glistening fried fish the size of a netbook, crowning a pile of fries larger than a brick. I could not eat it all. A fellow writer ate part of the fish and the remains will be sacrificed to omnivorous basset hounds.
And there ain’t no words comin’. At least not on the script.
(A lie. I’ve written one line and a dialogue tag!)
We’re back in the library again, eschewing the cold winds and setting sun and fleeing the circling gulls. My brain has turned to tartar sauce, and the heat from the oversized windows will sour my mayonnaise and pickle mind.
I also found four books in the stacks that I’m checking out.
The night has not turned out as planned. But so far, so fun!