I stay up too late, drink too much coffee, avoid grading papers, put off housework and phone calls, and who knows what else just to sit and write or draw, and while I don’t necessarily think there is anything wrong with that (would it be so terrible die in a messy apartment, tired and caffinated and a pile of manuscripts and art scattered on the floor?), it does drive me mad that even when I decide to sleep or get some paid-for work done, I can’t turn off that part of my brain that spins from idea to idea and knows, just knows, that this moment, THIS MOMENT, is THE moment I can create something great.

And now that I have my closet to work in, I think I may never stop, as if I’ve put on the writer’s version of the red shoes and my hands are going to be moving across some kind of paper until they are bloody stumps and a handsome woodsman has to cut them off. Okay, maybe it isn’t that bad, but if my other life, my earn-a-living, parent-in-a-non-mommy-dearest-sort-of-way, eat, and sleep life, didn’t force me to, I’d be drowning in marked up papers.

I’m exhausted and yawning and thinking–surely there is more thing I can make before sleep…