Result? I haven't written a word since last week. The book I'm working on ceased to speak to me. My muse has gone silent. It is as though the gods want me to atone for my reckless exuberance. To that end, I no longer make any assumptions about output.
What have I learned? The book I have been trying to write may not be the book I should be writing. I have decided to put it aside and allow my mind to open up to the infinite and find me a new idea that will allow me to be what I have always been--an amanuensis for my muse.
Good luck to the rest of you who are still on good terms with your muse!