Last night I tried for hours and hours to get a good poem. It just didn’t happen. This scrap is the best I could come up with.

I went on Twitter to complain:

And I had forgotten. It’d been weeks since I tried to make one. (I got occupied with reading and getting the store up and running.) There were days during the six months I was making the book, when I made 2 or 3 or even 4 a day…good ones, too. I was in the groove. I was making a lot of work.

Inertia is the death of creativity. You have to keep moving, keep making. So much of making art is muscle memory, keeping your routine…

And when you get out of the groove, you start to dread making work, because you know it’s going to suck for a while–it’s going to suck until you get back into the flow. A tweet from last week:

I should never let myself get to this point. I need the advice as much as anybody:

Take half an hour every day and make something. No matter what. No holidays, no sick days. Don’t stop.

(And don’t punt.)