It’s happened again. I’m stuck. Deep-in-the-ditch, sloshing-in-mud stuck. On my lap, rests my copy of A Clockwork Orange. I bought it because a friend of mine suggested it. It’s been on my to-read list for a few years now, I just never came around to it. And there is. Two chapters in and I want to write about her. The coffee drinker. The post I’ve started and restarted for two days now. Because every one in my life deserves a post sooner or later. And her time is now. Because our friendship is still new. And it’s still amazing that someone out there can capture my attention so quickly. And I can’t start the damn thing because the thoughts in my head are jumbled up. Yet, here I am. Writing about my block as if it were not big thing. Writer’s aren’t supposed to feel block. It’s a myth, isn’t it?