I'm enjoying a good laugh at my own denseness today.
When will I get it through my thick skull that the answer to a casual acquaintance who asks:
"What have you been up to?"
"Oh, not much. Housework, errands, you know."
The answer is NOT:
"Well, I've been contacting members of the International Leatherworkers Guild to ask a question about saddles. I want to know if they would have done a specific kind of saddle ornamentation in America in 1825."
Nor is THIS the correct answer:
"I've spent the last three hours learning how to stitch, bevel, emboss, and cut leather as they would have in early America. I also learned how to set buckles and retainer loops, and what to do if you accidentally pierce your own stitching thread with your double needle system. And I learned how to stick flax thread to a hog bristle."
Writer brain fog. It's an occupational hazard. It's not that writers don't have anything to say. It's that frequently, what's on our minds is so bizarre and random that we're better off keeping our mouths shut and sticking to the rote script for small talk.