There follows a little obscenity here, a dash of philosophy there, considerable whining overall, and a modern satirical novel is born.

Bored people, unless they sleep a lot, are cruel.

My dislike has no consequences. It accrues only in my mind—like preserves on a shelf or guns zeroing in, and never firing.

Writing about writing is a bit like talking about a conversation you are having; it tends to obscure desperation about where the next word is coming from.

There is a difference, of course, between real sentiment and the trash of shared experience.

I think when you are truly stuck, when you have stood still in the same spot for too long, you throw a grenade in exactly the spot you were standing in, and jump, and pray. It is the momentum of last resort.

I took a little celebrational nap.