I have this idea for a piece of writing based on the intersection of a line from a Food Network show and the bumbling work of our contractor, Bill. In the show, a chef told a sloppy, hapless contestant, "Your station is bumming me out!" The contestant is voted out of the contest shortly thereafter. That chef should have seen what Bill did to our house.

The piece has been stuck in my head almost as long as Bill disrupted our home. For 98 days, I wondered if he would ever finish and despaired at the work he was doing. It all made me anxious and desperate.

With this writing idea, I've tried typing, handwriting, leaving it for a week, coming back, but still it won't come. Yet, I'm not anxious. I'm certainly not desperate.

I'm also not Bill.

I am still cleaning Bill's mess, finding his mistakes, recovering from the job he did so poorly. Bill is still bumming me out.

Work on this piece of writing has gone almost as long, but unlike Bill, I'm proceeding with skill. My station is clean. The chef (someone who looks remarkably like me) is nodding for me to proceed. You're on the right path, he says, and then boots Bill from the contest.