Poke. Poke.

There are nights that I sit down and write. And then there are nights when I sit down and poke my novel with a stick. Poke, poke. I have this bad feeling I took a wrong turn, and so I retraced my steps and undid the thing I did right before I hit a mental jam. Now I'm doubting that decision while still feeling stuck.

I think I need a pointier stick.