In the morning, I don’t talk to anyone, nor do I think about certain things.

I try to stay within certain confines. I imagine this as a narrow, shadowy corridor with dim bare walls. I’m moving down this corridor, getting to the place where I can write.

I don’t read the paper or listen to the news. One glance at the headlines, the apprehension of the dire straits of the world, and it would all be over.

Nor do I make a single phone call, not even to find out if the plumber is actually coming that day to fix the sink, which he has failed to do now for five days in a row. One call and I’m done for. Entering into the daily world, where everything is complicated and requires decisions and conversation, means the end of everything. It means not getting to write.

How I Get To Write, by Roxana Robinson, The New Yorker 1/4/2012

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Throw up into your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon.
– Raymond Chandler

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It’ Sunday. You have time. Go write.

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