This seems to be what happened to me with the last half of Whiskey & Water, too--I wouldn't hit any kind of flow until I had at least a thousand words on the page. And I'm getting it in Carnival too.
I miss the good old days, when stories fell out of my head in great, frantic lumps. Now it's work. And hard work, with a lot of pencil-chewing.
Getting better at things is not supposed to make them harder, dammit.
Although I think I've figured out the next scene of this little structure.
Mebd is definitely not speaking to me, except to curse. The infected wound is inside her right buttock, and she's not sure whether she hates me more for the part where I imprison her in the bathroom, hold her in the sink and irrigate the wound with a solution of saline and hydrogen peroxide, or the part where I pin her down and smear triple antibiotic ointment all over her butt.
Anyway, my name is mud around here, currently.
As long as everybody hates me, I should clean the big dog's ears.
The faster I write the better my output. If I'm going slow I'm in trouble. It means I'm pushing the words instead of being pulled by them.
I became a writer for the glamor. The glamour!