Having a bad day of writing is like having a fight with somebody you love— the whole world gets tainted. You doubt everything—your character, their character, the future. I am in the hard part of writing, staring at a blank page, and life is tinged with doom. An itch, or knock in the engine, or whine in the refrigerator— something isn’t right. When I’m in that place I panic, start grabbing explanations: bi-polar disorder? Brain tumor? My father was crazy. Maybe I am, too. Maybe the best days of my life are over. Today, neck buzzing, slight headache, brain tumor seems like the best option. You think I’m kidding.