Last night I figured something out that I don’t quite understand. I generally don’t write at all when M. is around. (Or anyone else for that matter, but he’s the obvious one to be around.)

I wait for him to go to bed or take a run or otherwise not be here. He doesn’t stop me or distract me. He’s happy to listen to music, watch TV, read a book, take a shit, any number of activities that don’t demand my attention. Still and all, I do all sorts of other stuff beside him but produce crappy prose.

Clearly, this entry is dedicated to his not being home yet.

I wonder if it’s my solo existence for so long. I’m accustomed to the thoughts in my head as company.

Or perhaps it’s the fantasy of a hunched over, grim typist, cigarettes and whiskey and a shotgun in the corner. Nothing makes American writing like the prospect of self-destruction and embodying an angry loner.

Of course, that fantasy suits serial killers as well as writers. Not sure if the verdict is in on me yet.