The truth was… he knew he was stuck again. It reminded him of those times in his youth of traveling sandy roads out in the big middle of nowhere and the sick feeling he got when his old truck would drag down in the deep sand and slooooooow to an inching crawl and then come to a final, painful, ego bruising, stop. When that happened it was usually all pretty much over but the cussing.

Yes, he would be stuck.  

Of course he would attempt the usual quick fix tricks of evading his stuck-ness dilemma by alternating slipping the gears of the truck quickly between reverse and first to rock the truck back and forth or get out and toss some brush or grass or whatever under a drive wheel to gain some kind of traction to affect an escape from the seemingly bottomless shifting sand –but, lo and behold, ninety-nine point nine percent of the time…nada. He was just painfully and completely there. Stuck, stuck, STUCK. Rhymes with, well, it rhymes with something else but then that’s a horse of different color entirely.

So? What’s the recourse? Are there any analogies here to being stuck on an empty page to the being stuck on a sandy country road out in the big middle of nowhere? Other than accepting the “what is” of the situation from “the way it should be” of it and getting out of the driver’s seat for a long lonesome walk out of there, he just couldn’t think of a single solitary thing.