Yesterday afternoon was a bad writing day. I managed to get about 400 words in, but it was like pulling teeth. Actually, it was like looking in the mirror and trying to decide what to do about the teeth and which way should I pull them. I'm not sure why I'm resisting the story I would like to write. . . mostly I'd start to write something or think about the structure of the story and the inner critic would start chanting about how it wasn't good enough and the usual writer anxiety stuff.
Eventually, I did what I should have started doing much sooner, which was switch to editing the pile of almost-but-not-quite-edited post-critique manuscripts. It helped to find a note about one manuscript from an editor which read, "This is a perfectly fine story, but not what I'm looking for for this anthology, and I wish you the best selling it elsewhere."
On the gym front, this stupid cough is still lingering. I keep thinking I'm getting better, but it keeps on staying with me. So I haven't been to the gym in over two weeks, and I think it's beginning to show.