I didn’t write.

I sat down to write last night, pulled my typewriter onto my bed, faced the window – vibrant with sirens and Bukowski tavern – and set out to write. Instead, I cleaned the dust from between the keys and the little rods that carry the lettered ends to the paper. Instead, I looked through my stationery for old birthday cards I bought for friends whose birthdays are approaching. Instead, I contemplated creating a Facebook event for my birthday coming up. I played Words with Friends on my phone, and sent out excuses about having too many vowels to my friend Keenan who will beat me each time no matter the number of vowels I have. I wrote some honest lines about my relationship with my stepmom, then exhausted, lay back and stared at the lights hanging from my ceiling. I thought about conversations I had that day, about conclusions I’d come to. I watched a 28-minute long video of David Foster Wallace reading some of his non-fiction that made me want to reattempt wading through his works. As I cleared the books off my bed in order to climb in, I was overwhelmed by a recent memory that brought up feelings I’ve assured my friends time and again have dissipated. I condensed the feeling into a text message and sent it to Louisiana. Relieved, I realized the emotion was tied more to the nostalgia for intimate moments rather than a particular person. I slept just fine, but still, I didn’t write.

Tonight, I’m at the library, barely pooping out 3/4s of a page of what I have the sneaking suspicion I will hate come morning. Still, it’s satisfying enough to have written. I requested two of David Foster Wallace’s books: Consider the Lobster and The Broom of the System (which I’m checking out in audiobook form until the hard copy comes in). I read this week’s fiction in The New Yorker, Wells Towers’ “The Landlord,” and was not disappointed. My favorite moment in the story made me cover my mouth and eyes with my hands; I love when fiction does that. I developed a crush on the guy sitting to my left, and now I’m going to read another chunk of Carol Sklenicka’s Raymond Carver: A Writer’s Life. Reading never feels quite as good as writing, but it definitely relieves the guilt of not writing.

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