I don’t feel like writing, some days. Don’t feel like making supper, or cleaning out the refrigerator and identifying the source of that smell. Don’t feel like doing much of anything, truth be told, but snugging up under the covers and reading about somebody else… somebody who does something besides pull up the covers.
So you sigh, look out at the gray day, pull out the butter, the chicken, stir the sauce. And slowly the house fills with a nice warm smell (thank goodness), and you aren’t enjoying the fat quilt, but you figure you might as well enjoy dinner. Or you pull out the keyboard, stare down the screen, face down the really purple prose, knock it down and start over. And it’s not as good as that book you were reading, but it’s work, and at least at the end of the day there’s something to show for it. And surely it’s better than Snoopy’s.