That feeling when you have two different book stories developing parallelly in your head, but can’t write either. And that’s on good days. On bad days, there are five of them. Plus-minus.

Oh how I want to be that person who can sit down, put their laptop, notebook or whatever on their lap, open a half-written chapter and just write, and write, and write, whatever, even if it’s something they’ll need to edit over and over again, just put the words out there in sentences and don’t feel like all they have in their head is lumps of dirt and wind and pain, but definitely no actual words formed of actual letters, and definitely not in any single language. 
Except irrelevant posts, apparently.