Why My Writing is like My Mother's Wheelchair

At the moment, they're both a little stuck. The left wheel of my mother's electric wheelchair has stopped turning, leaving her to whirl in tiny wheelchair circles a la Joan Crawford in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. My book feels like it's doing the same thing.

I spent about an hour on Sunday flipping levers on the wheelchair, checking wires, connecting and disconnecting little connector things and, in one fabulous clusterf*ck, running over my own leg with the wheelchair. It's still going in circles. I have a largish bruise that is not nearly purple enough for how much it hurts.

I spent several hours writing on Sunday also, but I can't seem to get a good flow going. I've been looking at my outline (such as it is), picking scenes that I know how to write and getting those down on paper. The pages are starting to mount up, but there's a lack of linear flow that's making me fretful and frustrated. It's kind of like writing in circles.

Luckily, we have a wheelchair repairman who's going to come check out my mother's wheelchair. His name is Raphael and he's Italian. I so wanted him for my sister, but apparently he's married. Unfortunately, I do not have a book repairman and even if I did, I wouldn't want to show this to him (or her). It's that much of a gloppy mess.

So . . . should I just keep getting pages down and hope it will all fall into place before the beginning of September? Or should I start trying to beat it into submission now?