The writer ends his day with writing, of course, but not much. The day’s been extended, tumulted by so much. His energies and all-about synergies fade. He wants to keep writing but he needs bed. And badly. Tomorrow, another one busy and filled with appointments and commitments– look at the calendar, he thinks, hates what’s there waiting for him, the next day and next.
No. No more thinking. Bed. He needs bed; the sleep and the pillows and just a nothing he can fall into. But his mind won’t let him. He has to write something, just one more thing. A page.. for the novel. Why not.