Thanksgiving morning. I’m alone. The house is quiet. No plans. Perfect day to write. “But,” I hear my inner sloth whine, “I don’t feel like writing. I’m tired. It’s a holiday. I shouldn’t have to work. ” I just finished writing a chapter for my book. I want to write another. But I can’t get started. Just put words on paper, I tell myself. But Slothy refuses. I make a pot of tea, flip on the TV.