I look at my bank account. I run the budget. After the shrieking panic attack and the cold sweats have abated, I suddenly am motivated to write.

Mercenary, hell. We're trying to survive here.

On a less hard-nosed note, I had the same problem after my dad died. Focus was not possible. All I could do was make myself sit down and write words, any words, and not get up until I had at least a page. The words weren't great, but they were words. Eventually I had a ms. It needed a lot of rewriting, but it was there.