Fidgets

I've spent the afternoon fidgeting for a number of reasons.  First, I spent the weekend giving myself repetetive stress injuries knitting on tiny needles, so now I'm sore from moving fingers too much and the rest not at all.  I was melancholy last night, so I read a novel that was sadder than I was.  And finished it.  I suppose if I got motion-activated light switches then I would be compelled to move every ten minutes or so, instead of marathon immobility.  So now I'm achy. The other reason I'm fidgeting is because I want to write something.   Something good.  Badly.  Goodly?

Umm  . . .  wait a sec . . . *clears throat*  I feel the imperative to write without screwing it up.    

I managed it once a couple of summers ago.  Or Someone did.  It was like the story was there and all I had to do was write it down, like novelizing a movie.  I would write at work, because the summers are quiet.  I'd write in the evening, walled up with music that I'd heard so much that I didn't need to hear it anymore, the next best thing to silence.  I'd get up in the middle of the night and write for a couple more hours and then go to work and do it all again. That story demanded to be written down.  I was satisfied.

But now I just can't find the thread that will lead me to the story.  It's like hearing people chattering nearby and trying to find them in a house of mirrors.