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This happens every time

Subconscious Me: You know, it's been almost two weeks since you finished the last story. Gonna start working on anything else, like, um, this year?
Me: Hey, writing that story was teh hard! Can't I just coast for a while?
Sub-Me: You can coast when you're dead. Start writing already!
Me: I've run out of ideas. I can't write no more.
Sub-Me: That's stupid. I've got tons of ideas - you know that. You're just being lazy.
Me: I don't know how to start the next story. Every first sentence sounds stoopid.
Sub-Me: Then write the second sentence, and go back later and write the first.
Me: Write the what when? Ugh. Writing is hard. Go get me some Cheetos.
Sub-Me: OMFG NO. You just lost ten pounds, bitch, and I am not about to go through that shit again. Stick a vegetable in your cakehole, and START WRITING.
Me: AAAAUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHH. Don't wanna write! ::stamps foot::
Sub-Me: Well, that's too bad. I mean, I have a couple interesting ideas for that novella you were going to write next, and I had a fantastic revelation about the plot of your trunked YA novel that would probably have helped in the rewrite, but whatevah.
Me: Whaaaa? Wait a minute--
Sub-Me: Vacation time! I'm just going to take a little nap, maybe spend some time thinking about who the twelfth Cylon on BSG might be, shit like that. You just never mind me.
Me: You know, if I write 750 words a day on the novella starting today, it'll be finished before my vacation. And then maybe I can pound out a story while I'm doing all that train traveling with Dr. Brenda, and I can write the novel outline on the plane - I've got the plot all figured out, but I just haven't put it down on paper yet. OMG! THE FIRST SENTENCE! ::runs to notebook::
Sub-Me: Heh heh. Sucker.

Marine Autumn

I owe you marine autumn
With dankness at its roots
and fog like a grape
and the graceful sun of the country;
and the silent space
in which sorrows lose themselves
and only the bright crown
of joy comes to the surface.

--Pablo Neruda.

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