For the first time since I wrote my chapter on E. F. Burian (on whom I'd willingly write an ENTIRE book), my brain is saying, "Screw art! Screw craft! Let's write!" I find this odd because I really don't like the subject of my current chapter. I also find it a bit unnerving, even though this attitude, should it translate into sizeable daily word counts, will bring me that much closer to finishing this damn thing quickly. If not painlessly.
There's nothing below the fold.