Tonight, just after midnight, I find myself confronted with a familiar experience: I’m all ready to write, but the undisciplined couch-dwelling segment of my brain seems to believe I should goof off instead. After all, it argues, reading Iain M. Banks is like doing research, right?

And this despite having all of three pages before it’s done! And I know what that ending is and every beat along the way! It’s almost as if I lie here under the belief all the hard work–the thinking–is done, so what’s the point in bothering with the easy bit of writing?

So I’m going to conduct an experiment. I’m hungry. I’ve got all the makings for nachos in the kitchen and if there were a plate of nachos in front of me right now I would eat the hell out of those nachos. Here’s the deal, demotivated personality subset: I’m not going to eat until this story is done.

We’ll see how long he holds out.

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