My little tortoise, Lightning, has been working on getting through the space between the chair and the speaker for the past ten minutes.
No whining, no cursing. Just working on a problem he came up with for himself, utterly unnecessary in the larger scheme of things to solve, but clearly vital to him in the moment.
That's how the writing is going these days for me. That's the stage of book I'm at: stuck, in a tight space of my own creation, plodding away with no discernible progress.
But then, as I was writing this, thinking well, this is kind of a depressing little note, isn't it? Lightning turned himself around and went the other direction. No self-criticism at least as far as I can tell, just a decision to try a different route.
For somebody with a brain the size of a pignoli nut and no published work to his name, he has some pretty sharp insights to share about the writing process. Okay, Lightning. I get it. Fine. I'll try that.
OTOH, if he is so brilliant, why is he now trying to get through the wall behind my desk?