Ready for day, appointment later. Things this morning are clear, and a bit self-critical. Making a list of to-do’s, as so many do on Monday. Working on poems to sell, little book then bigger. Active this morning, even after that weird fucking dream I had last night. Yeah, what was that? Can’t let self get too frazzled or razzled, rabbled or dazzled by it. Sip your coffee, Mike. Literally what I’m telling myself to do right now, accompanied by a shut-the-fuck-up. I needed one of those. Thinking too much. I always stress to my students not to overthink, that overthought is writer-death. So why do I do it so often? Why not just do what you have to do? What I have to do today is WRITE. Write poems to read and sell… not putting enough time into Mike Madigan, the Writer. Had the thought of just getting out of bed after that dream. Goddamnit why didn’t I? Whatever. I’m here in the coffee shop writing. Man next to me has his laptop out, but he’s not writing. He’s scrolling through some website and now snacking on either a croissant or scone. Not working. I’m working. Making progress, I hope. 08:48… shit, how did that happen?