The floor is open.

I am having an internal debate.

The first voice, a hard-nosed, grey-haired guy with a thick neck and a smoking habit, tells me that I need to get my ass in gear, write six or seven hundred more words, get up and do it again tomorrow. He says this with a burnt, greasy cigar in his mouth. He drinks scotch.

The second voice, a soothing, sultry thing in a red silk dress, tells me that I should take a load off, mix myself a drink, lie on the couch and watch The Descent. She slides up to me and tells me the writing can wait. She smells like jasmine.

The third: an eager, bouncy kid with a striped shirt and scuffed overalls. He tugs at my jeans and says I should keep reading Harry Potter, so I'll be ready for the seventh book. He is chewing bubble gum, and inexpertly tries to blow bubbles, more often than not spitting the gum out of his mouth, picking it up out of the grass, brushing at it, and tossing it back in.

The fourth voice looks suspiciously like my mother, and says I need to get laundry done. She reasons that I can do this while listening to anyone else. She is worldworn and smells like soap.

The fifth voices sits in a chair in the corner, with his feet up and a computer on his lap, and mentions casually that I should blog about the other four.