The hour countdown till I collect the first wave or landing of final papers for the term. More than ready. But my worry is grading with a newborn at home. This is where the Newness says, “I’m right fucking here! Here’s your challenge! Your writing direction! Your ‘inspiration’!” Writing while exhausted, while Emma lies there staring at the ceiling, becoming more aware of her new world. That’s my written direction fulfilled and polished and proven.
No more coffee. Shit. So what. Full-timers outside this door, ‘bla bla bla bla…’ How do they think they sound? I’ve always wondered. But thinking about them is sharply boring and like a sludgy thought toxin.
So, topic next–