The hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the clock. A little lamplight on a stand in the corner of the room beside the bookshelves. That's about what I have right now, sunrise just moments away.
I talked to a fellow in NYC for a long time yesterday. He is a well published journalist. He has written for The NY Times and the Post, Interview and Variety magazines, and many more. He has interviewed famous actors and directors and covered dance and fashion for years. He has an MFA in creative writing and was the favorite of a famous poet. But getting his fiction published, he said, is a job. He is hiring an agent to try to get his writing "placed."
It is difficult to be a "creative." Supply and demand, I guess.
The gray light brings the world into view. The cat walks in front of the kitchen door ready to be fed. The coffee left in the pot may still be warm. I think I'll order a pizza and eat with my mother tonight. One of her relatives will be arriving today. A real party.
The fellow from NYC said I was lucky, that I had it made. He said I should do nothing for two months. Sit on the couch, don't make plans. In two months, he said, "You will know what to do. You'll" go to Hawaii and take surf lessons or become a bartender or just chill, he said. "You'll figure it out."
Doing nothing is taking all my time.
If that isn't a line in a country song, it should be.
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