Can't write, won't write

I can't write today. Nothing. Not a word. I don't think it has anything to do with the unpleasant episode of last week, because thankfully and with exquisite timing it was followed swiftly by the acceptances of four of my flash stories by two different magazines. And when, due to previously mentioned unpleasant episode, I wrote back to make sure I would be able to see the final versions of the stories before being printed or put up on the web, both editors were so understanding (one, the delightful Colin of the Ranfurly Review, making my week by saying that "no, I won't be altering your work. It's too fine to tamper with. :-)") that I immediately realized that what had happened to me was, thankfully, an aberration. That most literary magazines have an ethical code that dictates that a writer will always be asked for approval of edits.

I want to be clear here: I am not saying that my work is untouchable, perfect. I am not saying that it does not need editing, would not benefit from editing. I have had some amazing editors who have suggested edits that most definitely improved the stories. And I have welcomed - and do welcome - this wholeheartedly. But it is, as someone mentioned in a comment below, a partnership, writer and editor together.

Ok, enough. I am trying to put this behind me. But, nevertheless, I can't write right now. I don't get writer's block. Never have. It's just laziness, really. Laziness and Scrabulous. Or the weather - a storm is whipping up outside my window. Or the lack of chocolate. Or many many reasons. Not all beyond my control. So I should pull myself together. I should. OK. I am going to. Yes I am. Here I go. Bye. I'm going now.