I can’t seem to manage more than three hours of sleep in a row . This story wakes me up. It keeps me awake. I dream about it. Sometimes I find answers, and sometimes I’m in a horror movie, and the ending of the story is literally in a character’s decapitated head. (IT MEANS SOMETHING. WHAT DOES IT MEAN?) When I’m finished with this draft, I should probably look into some kind of sleep aid.
I had to look up stuff online for the story today (yesterday?) about chickens, and also weird things that expectant fathers might do. This website said that new dads think about dying all the time, because the next generation has arrived, here is the kid who’s going to replace you, if everything goes as planned. I never think about death more than when I’m writing. It’s not just because writing is at some level about creating something that will outlive us-but the fear that I will get hit by a bus or have a heart attack or something-anything-before I finish. As if there was even such a thing as being finished.
It’s 6.45 am. Outside the window, people are walking to the train. Brooklyn has turned off the streetlights.