Breathing the same air just makes more carbon dioxide. Last night I forced myself back into it, picking at Chapter 6, but my heart just wasn't there. I felt dejected, like I'd never written anything worthwhile. And then I read my True Beauty stories: "The Lonely Tale of King Furciel", "La Fin Du Monde" and "Days Like Ice Cream". I loved them. Without remembering writing them they didn't read like mine. They were perfect, enough to keep going. Today I spent ten minutes writing a Caliper Boy scene for Little One. She loved it. That's enough to keep going too.