You'd think it would be *easier* to write a scene about impending doom when you're feeling a sense of impending doom.
But I have this weird inkling that this scene would be far easier to write if I were, for instance, staying at a Caribbean 5-star resort, rolling in $100 bills strewn across a four-poster bed, with Peg at my feet in a rubber catsuit, no dwindling job queue to worry about, a healthy rapprochement with my estranged sisters, and both my retinas free of sinister fatty deposits.
But hey, were would the romance be in that?
Oh, right. In the catsuit, the tropical resort, the restored sense of self-respect, and the large quantity of money. Huh.