The two words no writer ever wants to admit…

I’m stuck.

There, I said it. Send the pitchforks, blast me with fire, blow my house over with a million breaths. I’m stymied. Table for Two, my hot lunch #3, is sitting in my folder, and every time I open it up – I stare at the scene, the words written, the direction I am going, and then… nothing. Nothing comes. No divine inspiration. No prose. My fingers hover over the keyboard and my mind reels, but not with anything useful.

Ryan and Samantha wait patiently for me to get my shit together, but...