There’s a pattern to this whole thing, you know. Monday, I get little done. Tuesday, I write ten fairly good pages. Wednesday, I stare at the computer for an hour and a half thoughtfully drinking coffee, write a page, throw it in the “scrap” file, and start over. By one or so, I begin to wonder if the whole project is actually worth it and if a collection of largely disjointed postmodern essays on magic is going to appeal to anyone but me and my friends. By 1:30, I’ll resort to grim determination and chemical enhancement (caffeine!), because I want to write seventy or eighty more pages before the end of next week. At some point, I’ll log on to complain on my blog.
And by 2:30, I’ll make cabbage soup and decide to spend the rest of the day goofing off. I’m going to take tomorrow off, too. Maybe go into to the City, visit a museum or something. I need some stimulation. This morning, I looked at my computer chair and thought “I have spent the last week sitting on that for twelve or more hours a day.”