I’ve got a bad cold and my brain has become a bland macaroni salad.
I can’t think clearly about anything.
I certainly can’t think clearly about my current writing dilemmas—like if Mr. H’s father should have a Scottish brogue.
Should Mr. H’s father even be in this scene? Should he even be in my novel?
What is he doing here? Why does he need to be Scottish?
Heck, I don’t know.