Right this very second, I'm supposed to be writing.
And my body is doing its damnedest to convince me we're not capable of sitting still1 or (horror of all horrors) dragging words out of the murky recesses of my consciousness and slapping them down in some laughable approximation of narrative order. My eyes are sagging in their sockets, my shoulders are starting to climb up around my ears, and my legs keep attempting mutiny by standing. Get up, my mind is whispering. Give it up. Do something easy. Like watching TV. Or reading — there's that juicy book you're in the middle of, just waiting for you. Or what about scrubbing the bathtub? ANYTHING BUT THIS.
All because I'm not quite sure what happens next in this short story, and apparently DECIDING is too much to ask.
Honestly, some days I think if you just accomplish staying in the chair, you've won an epic battle.2