I’m actually going to write today.  All day.

I wrote those sentences in the hopes that I will feel obligated to fulfill them.  I am going to call my local library branch/post-methadone clinic nap spot to see if they have wireless.  Please god don’t let them have wireless. I need to find an internet safe-zone. Internet, you have turned my already pathetic attention span into nothing.  And I am powerless to fight you. If you are around, you win. It’s that simple.  And frustrating. 

Like probably everyone else, a key factor in getting myself to write is to read an author who I not only love, but has done the thing I’m trying to do.  It’s my way of psyching myself up.  I have the people I read when I’m going sparse and strange, the people I read when I’m going to a more lyrical and internal place, the people who give their narrators very particular and direct voices. 

Today I will read parts of Deborah Eisenberg’s Transactions in a Foreign Currency and Miranda July’s No One Belongs Here More Than You.  From the latter, I’ll really just be reading “Something That Needs Nothing,” which is by far the best piece in the collection (I can’t really say I love her yet but goddamn is that story good).

BTW, I am not a methadone addict, but I would be in good shape if I were to become one, as I live around the corner from a clinic.  

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