Like, at all. Nothing.
Today, I'm supposed to do laundry; buy groceries; set up meetings with people I've made paintings for; see if the repairs are done on my mother's car (and pick it up if they are); call a friend who needs to hear from me; cook some soup. I'm supposed to be a productive non-writer.
Does the blog count? I'm supposed to try to keep up a blog every day (totally against my nature) so that there is some more of "me" available to be seen should anybody want to see me online—which only makes sense, since I don't have a lot of drunken sex videos out there to come to light. Blogging appears to be the only way to get to know me—well, aside from all the broadcasting bits; some silly scandals about my employment (yeah, there were some—kids these days); and some copyright stuff; maybe a CRTC hearing or two.
Anyway. The thing I want to do most is sit at my computer and write down the story that is currently swirling through my consciousness and I can't!
Guess what: If I could; if I suddenly had a block of time where I could sit down and compose what I'm sure is a hell-banger of a tale…there'd be no words typed at all.
Writing is self destruction in typographical form.