We've all been there, staring at a blank page, a blinking cursor, waiting for our version of The Grapes of Wrath to emerge, fully formed from our imagination in one caffeine-fueled dash through a nearly perfect first draft. It never happens. Steinbeck's ghost wins that battle every time. We're blocked . . . worse than blocked, we're stifled, consigned to solitary confinement in a Turkish prison, chained to the bulkhead in a pirate frigate . . . whatever...