You change tack – by sitting and staring at a blank screen.
You’ll do it tomorrow, and tomorrow – you said yesterday, and the day before.
You take a morning trip to the city centre, walk around, drink coffee, get rained on, hope that something will strike.
You return home.
You reckon you could squeeze out something on Bob Dylan and Frank Sinatra, or your sign-up to Spotify, or running in December. Or that plate of sprats you ate in London, unlike any other you’d had.
You don’t – the blank screen’s in the way.
You make lunch and eat it. You pack a bag for a trip to see your father. You dig out a Sonny Rollins CD you bought a month ago but haven’t listened to. You google details about the CD.
You text your wife, telling her you’re set to start. You check Facebook, again.
You want to finish a book of short stories but you’ve promised yourself that you’ll do this first.
You assure yourself that this happens to the best and to the worst of them.
In desperation you copy a trait from a novel you’re just finished, writing in the second person narrative.