Lately, I've been living this strange life, lately. Waking up at 10:00, wandering into a coffee shop, sitting there for three to four hours, and telling myself that I'm making progress.

The nice thing about the New Coffee Shop (the vibe of the old one changed) is that nobody looks too industrious. I mean, they look busy. But nobody looks like they're on their way to a Meeting. I can't go to Peete's because everyone is either writing Emile Hirsh's next project, or trying to pick each other up. At the New Coffee Shop it's all students and old men playing timed chess (love the old men playing chess).

Today, I ran into a Writer friend with whom I could discuss my woes. She gave me writing therapy for an hour.

"It's like being a labor," she said. "After women give birth they go into post-partum depression."

"Yeah, and then you've got placenta everywhere..." I added. "How do I know if I'm birthing a work of art, or am just pushing out a lot of amniotic fluid?"

Just for today, I can keep writing.