No writing, no writing, no writing. I think I can feel the well refilling at the back of my mind, but I won't let myself find out till I get this g-d w-f-h thing done. I would have already had it done, if I had been behaving properly, sticking to a serious and professional work ethic. Now I'm refusing to allow work on my own stuff till this is finished and turned in, even though at this moment it is grating on every last raw nerve. I'm actually squirming in my chair rather than forcing myself to face it. I finally pulled the file up, and it is sitting there right now, behind this blog thing on my desktop. I can't see it, but I know it's there, like the slimy ancient bullfrog in the herpetarium at the Fort Worth zoo, the one that's from the Amazon or someplace and looks like a huge gray featureless blob of mud. I'm not kidding, that thing is the size of a deflated watermelon. And just like that lump of a bullfrog, this work will lie in the same position until the end of time, or until somebody moves it. In this case, the only somebody who can move it is me.