There's a pile of scripts on the table. Ink and fresh paper. Looming deadlines. A table cleared, more or less. A choice of nibs, I have to choose nibs, this isn't the size I usually work and I'm ... Sometimes you can wait till you feel ready and sometimes you just have to start even though the barbs of your unreadiness will catch on every damn thing, and it will hurt, hurt to do the work*. So I'm procrastinating, like a fucking trouper, here. Poking this and moving that and rambling about this and wondering why everyone on my friends list is bitching about being single, though probably not as much as they are.