“If you enjoy the opinions you possess, if they give you a glow, be suspicious. They may be possessing you. An opinion should be treated like a guest who is likely to stay too late and drink all the whiskey.” — William H. Gass, “Influence,” from A Temple of Texts
My opinions are fleeting things. Trick-or-treaters looking a house with the light on. Surely that’s no good, either.
For some reason I’m worrying about you today. Everything okay?
Some days I wear my blue glasses.
FOR a house. Jesus, I’m tired.
It’s that waking up at 2 and worrying till 5. Could you get up and write when you wake up and can’t get back to sleep? Or could you write on your husband’s ass? I’m assuming he’s right beside you in the wee hours, probably holding pretty still.
Ha! I needed that.
I don’t dare touch him when he’s asleep, because he’ll take it as a come-on and leap across the bed at me before he’s even got his eyes open. This is possibly a male reaction; when he wakes me up I freak out and start scrambling in the other direction.
I usually try to read, but mostly I just stare at the page in front of me or the wall or the window or the back of Snorey-snorzalot’s head.
There’s a fellow named Rick Whitaker who’s written a couple books. Maybe more. Anyway, what he said was, “Consider insomnia a gift.”
Sometimes I get a good amount of work done when I can’t sleep. I find it a state of mind conducive to editing.