More fuzz than fizz

Something is wrong with me. It must be. I want to talk about my writing, my thoughts, and feelings concerning my current project, and yet every time I sit down, the desire flees and I stare blankly at the screen. Even my fingers begin to ache, compounding the negativism of the little voice that whispers, "Forget it; you've nothing important to say anyhow. You just want to ramble and whine."

Perhaps I'm under a curse of some kind. Now there's a fun thought for a writer of fantasy. Maybe I do have something important to say--something important to me, I mean, not to the wide world in general--and a curse is preventing me from formulating it. Actually, this thought eerily mirrors something that happens to a character in The Bitter River. 

( Maybe I should have said  )

Why am I still awake when I got so little sleep last night? *hears a voice, like those old, "This is a test of the emergency broadcast system" messages that says, "Please disregard this writer's idiotic ramblings. She makes no sense. She's very tired.*

*hits "post to mnfaure" before the voice changes her mind*