It’s an odd day. A transitional day. I wish I was going to Paris or, strangely, Beijing. But then I realize that there are thousands of Americans wishing that they were going to Alaska. How odd.
I had a good conversation with my friend Tom about the spirituality of the practice of writing. And how the ritual of doing it every day becomes something that fuels itself. That if you write every day you get a lot of inspiration from just returning to the page.
I am certainly looking for some answer to this aimlessness that I’m feeling. My other friend, Jim, has suggested that I write a short story. He has also reminded me that I’m off-track, that I’ve lost my voice.
Since the Times review last year, I’ve moved away from the quirky, humor-loving tone that made me so happy to write Red Weather.
I am also reading a new book: A Good and Happy Child, by Justin Evans. It’s remarkable.
Sunday is different for me, in that there are more people around — more people in the cafes. So, it’s a little harder to get my writing done.