I have no energy, no time, and no ideas, but the crawling need in the back of my skull to create something is bubbling up again. I know this much: If I'm going to muster anything productive, I'm going to have to outline. This is not easy for me, mostly because I don't ever really do it. But I really won't be whole as a person until I tear some fiction out of the fetid depths of my soul and vomit it into a word processor file, whereupon I can gaze at its insignificance and insufficience.
I'm in a happy place, can't you tell?