Working out later. Henry asleep now, funny since he was so lively and vocal, cheery and smily earlier. Wondering when I’ll have time to read. Staying in Irby’s book, with her tone and stylistic approach to essays and entries.
Already feeling stirred and crazy in this house. Write my way through it, I say over and over and hoping I actually sell self on such a way. Nothing to write, or even report from this current room and day, Saturday. Kids quiet upstairs, Melissa and Henry quiet in other room. Quiet, yes my drug. I would do it all day if I could, truthfully. What would I be doing if there weren’t any covid. Probably still with day off, going to lunch with family somewhere, then when back kids could play outside, or do something to keep themselves alive and enlivened, OUTSIDE.
Maybe I need more caffeine. Something… thought about buying some boxing gear again for additional cardio in the garage, the little workout area, but then retreated from the idea. How much longer is this shit going to be? Cases rising, so are deaths, and now these new strains. How the fuck am I supposed to make quota? Don’t think like that, I say to myself, don’t let this do THAT to you.
Friend Jesse buying his first home. New structure, new rooms and stories, adventures. Happy for him but feeling that envy and longing for newness. So then do something new, I write. Be a different writer, write new Mike Madigan.
That again, really?
Yeah really. I had to write it. Remind myself that it’s possible.
A shot of espresso, or just stick to the water. Thinking of a nap. NO. Are you kidding me?
This talking to self is teaching me about Mike Madigan, and the writer he needs to be in this day, with that goddamn quota.