While I was curled up in bed last night under my buttery butter sheets that I love I came up with a great scene for a story. It was right there and in my last conscious moments before drifting off to sleep, I thought about getting up to write it down.

But the air coming through the cracked window was so cool and my buttery sheets were so warm and soft, that I opted for sleep instead of writing.

Big mistake.

Now the memory of thinking of scene is haunting me, the blank white page is taunting me, and I still haven’t sent anything to the Chiliwinkers who will be stalking me about my slack.

I blame the buttery sheets and not my own atrophied imagination. Why can’t I write anything?