What do you do when the well is dry? What do you do when the magical waters of inspiration seem to dry up in the withering heat of sleep deprivation combined with the relentless winds of work? You could give up and let the stories inside of your wither and die in the drought, or you take out your emotions and begin drilling deeply, looking for the gusher. You might break your story once or twice, but you keep drilling. How long does it take till you hit that liquid gold? I don’t know. Maybe about one hundred of them?