The Shrinking World

There is something insanely shrinking about staying home, writing, making sure things are in order.

The antidote might be a spy mission to Belarus. Or maybe get a few apartment chickens.

I used to be able to amuse myself when I was at home. Now, I pad around in my slippers, do edits and look forward to dinner. I amuse myself, too—but I have become very aware of the strangeness of a full grown man banging around alone all day in an apartment.

New York is quite exciting. But in order to function well, it is important to be able to be relaxed, to let your mind wander. This does require staying indoors. Most certainly in winter and summer.

I think writers are weird. How do you write about life when you are basically in a bathrobe sipping tea? It’s quite unnatural to write. It does not make sense to be alone in a room all day, looking at bare walls, kicking up your heels in excitement when you know the mailman has finished loading up the boxes.

But if you have the need to make stuff up---then you do. And if you’re doing it, well, you sort of live a life similar to someone who lives in a hospital, staring out the window, wondering if you’ll ever get out.