Felt ill this morning. Could have been the doomsday thoughts running through my head, coming back even though I told them they’re not allowed to, could have been the enormity of writing a novel, a new novel, and what might happen after it’s done. (Revise, cut, write anew, revise, cut, write anew, revise, revise, cut, cut, revise, then send out **and here my brain fizzles, my heart seizes** and I don’t get beyond that because the thought of it is too much to bear, the end.) Sure, I could have felt ill this morning from all that. But you know what I really think it was? Last night’s binge on eggplant pizza.

Anyway, I got a late start. I made it to the coffee place on Broadway, but it was crowded, so I finished reading the story I’d been devouring on the subway last night (“Chance” by Alice Munro, yes I am reading Runaway again… Next up is Kafka on the Shore, which I’ve never read). Then a set of glossy blond tourists took up the tables around me, and on the other side a group of Navy officers from Japan. I headed out to my weekend writing spot. But first mailed something in a mailbox on the street—only to discover, after slipping the thing in the box, that a red sign was crookedly sinking on the inside with only some of those words readable: STOP! ROUTE CANCEL— Oh. Now I understood why the first two mailboxes I tried would not open. Do I call the post office? Ugh. Also, today, there is expected to be a decision on whether my school will stay open, and I’m nervous. Still, there’s nothing I can do about that, and certainly not from here.

So I am here, my weekend writing desk. They are painting the ceiling; soon I might have to move. Word count on the page: 0. Word count in my anxious heart: -10. Word count in my dreams: 50,001.

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