One of those days: You want to write; are itching to write. Got nothing specific in mind.
You’re at an impasse. The clever essay about why Pub Grub is no longer relevant, is no longer relevant. The grand fictional epic about the guy and the other guy and that girl who swims with a clairvoyant manatee is at that stupid place where you realize you’re going to have to start all over, because who isn’t going to scoff when they read “clairvoyant manatee.” The memoir you’ve been laboring over for the past ten years about your great great grandparents’ amazing journey from their homeland to the States is reading like a typically boring chronicle where every other paragraph starts with, “And then they…”
I want to write but have absolutely no content to develop. I can’t even make it past 150 words with a random stream of consciousness about not having anything to write.