b r e a t h i n g   r o o m

18 Dec 97

In the final procrastination countdown on my do-or-die chapter of the Be book, I literally dealt with every single remaining message in my in box, already winnowed to under 20 in the furious housekeeping equivalent of the past few days.

Ultimately, there was nothing left to do but pay outstanding bills (can do that tomorrow just as well) or write the damn chapter, already over-outlined and paraphrased six ways to sunday. Why is the final transformation of idea into action so repellant? misplaced Hellenic idealism? fear of failure? fear of success? of mediocrity? (does mediocrity represent a shameless kind of failure and a shameful kind of success?)


It really is hard to write and shit at the same time.

yester morrow
day one
first lines

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