9:46 a.m.: Three pages but I think the story is starting to make sense in my head. Now if I can just get it to make sense on the page. I am sure everyone wants to read about the physicist/bowler. I know I kind of do. Work is being nicely cooperative and I’ve got Liz Phair and Matthew Sweet on repeat. This just might work. Right now I am wondering why must my creative process be so brutal? I long to be one of the writers who can dilly-dally for days over a draft. I’ve tried that before and my hard-drive is full of half-started stories that seem so lame when I go back to them that I never finish.

11:30 a.m.: Six pages in and I’ve nearly finished a healthy flashback just to make sure everyone in class has something to bitch about. I’ve rediscovered my ability to write third-person past tense. At least I think I have. It’s all scene and dialog and not an image or descriptive detail to be found. Suck on that. See why I need a poetry class?

2:24 p.m.: T-minus five hours and six minutes until class starts. My four o’clock was canceled, but lunch club has messed with my mojo. I was all very zen with the story until I took that break. I’m trying valiantly to get back to the zone. 8 pages down, and I have no idea how many more to go. The flaws in this story are so large don’t be surprised if sometime next week you hear about full-grown adults seemingly disappearing into the thin air.