I spend a lot of time trying to remember how to write. I fiddle about at my desk, cleaning the keyboard or attempting to neaten the piles of paper that started off in some kind of order (tax receipts; to read; to shred) and are now somehow comprised of books and art supplies and paper bags and receipts. I used to worry that I never had any ideas, and any that I did have were essentially derivative. It was a symptom of fatigue, I think.