Not a thing one ought to confess. Not when the necessity for a paycheck is still so present in one’s life. But some mornings, the only thing I want to do is the work that matters…to me alone.

To think about nothing but the created world. To have coffee in silence with the friends on the page. To know what’s coming next. To know that the work that comes of it all will be nothing but the best you can do. To have the leisure to get it right.

That is the life that is still distressingly far away. The only one that matters.

Sure, there are tiger-traps built into that life, too. The very real possibility of writing into public indifference. The realities that, do what you might, work as hard and as well as you can, no one will ever pay attention. That’s the hard side of the understanding.

Commerce is good. Commerce is important. Stuff needs to get sold. Stuff needs somebody good to help do that. But oh dear me.

Some days, it’s especially hard—not to get out of bed…that’s easy enough…but to come to a place and do the thing you must that keeps you from the thing you love…the place where love lives because you created it. It’s seductive. It’s the lover that spoils you for the lesser. It’s Garbo’s “I want to be left alone”—the fidgety, thumb-twiddling, teeth-gnashing occupations of days spent waiting for the night to come. The worst kind of longing of all.

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