Three minutes ago, I just managed to — from some freak accident — delete a piece of fiction I’ve been working on for months. For months, I’ve tweaked it. Literally, sentence by sentence, word by word, and comma by comma. Some days, I’d spend a good hour just staring at a single phrase, making it perfect.

And now it’s all gone.

I’m heartbroken. Seriously.

I have to start over, I know. But how, I have no idea.

Sleeping à la nude is so much more comfortable.

Spotted at the shopping mall…

A girl with her back against the glass window of a video game store.

Awkward and pouting.

Just across from her is a boy — his back also against a glass window, but this one framing a woman’s clothing store.

He’s got his arms folded across his chest and a look of feigned coolness and nonchalance that says, “Yeah, I’m usually a bad boy, cept’ not when I’m standing in front of a billion pink brassiers.”

Their eyes meet.

And they just stand there, grinning sheepishly at one another.

Coffee Time In the Common Room

I looked up from my coffee mug to see one of my office mates — a native of Gloucestershire, England — peering at me intently.

“You know what?” she asks the room.

“What?” we all say.

“I’ve decided,” she said, still peering at me, “that I do like the Canadian accent.”

I snorted.

“You do, eh?”

I’ve been sitting here for a little under an hour.

Thinking.

Thinking about what to write. What I can write.

Nothing. I’m getting absolutely nothing.

Everything in my head is a mess. Like someone put my brains into a Cuisineart and pressed the purée button.

Mush. That’s all I’ve got.