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desperanceIt's, oh, 6.45 or thereabouts. Evening-time. Knocking-off time: time to leave all this, and start to think about dinner, and TV or radio or books; or going out, finding friends; you know. That stuff. Non-writing life.
But I'm going out for dinner, I do not need to cook; and I'm not going out till half-past eight or later. I could do more work. I have written two thousand words today, but still I could do more.
And I'm halfway down a bottle of wine, and I could drink more: which might encourage more working, or it might do the other thing, encourage stopping, reading, something. And I might not care about that, either way. Which would be fine, but if I drink the rest of the bottle, I might be less than stellar company for my friends tonight.
But if I stop - stop working and stop drinking, both - then what on earth will I do for the next couple of hours? This is one of the sudden stark truths of my life, apparently: that without work, or drink, or cooking, I am bereft. I don't know what to do.
But I'm going out for dinner, I do not need to cook; and I'm not going out till half-past eight or later. I could do more work. I have written two thousand words today, but still I could do more.
And I'm halfway down a bottle of wine, and I could drink more: which might encourage more working, or it might do the other thing, encourage stopping, reading, something. And I might not care about that, either way. Which would be fine, but if I drink the rest of the bottle, I might be less than stellar company for my friends tonight.
But if I stop - stop working and stop drinking, both - then what on earth will I do for the next couple of hours? This is one of the sudden stark truths of my life, apparently: that without work, or drink, or cooking, I am bereft. I don't know what to do.