So I’m blogging now. Do people still do that? Write narcissistic, unedited scraps of essay and memoir, baring their naked selves before the anonymous travelers of the ’Net? I’m blogging so I can take an occasional break from the book without locking myself out of the writing process. I need a hobby that keeps the wheels turning, so I won’t miss a beat when it’s time to jump back into the book. Also, I’m blogging because I don’t know if I’m cut out for the solitude of this job. I need an outlet, a substitute for the discussion of ideas, thoughts, observations — the stuff I would normally say to co-workers or companions if I had any. That sounds a little more pathetic and self-pitying than I intend it to. But the truth is, for as long as it takes to write this book (and I’m about halfway through), my days and nights will mostly be spent in seclusion. The book’s regional focus and my intractable poverty compel me to live in my childhood home in the Piney Woods of Northeast Texas, where I act like a character in a Chekhov play, stuck in the provinces and dreaming of Moscow. East Texas is the only place on Earth where I feel halfway at home, but one does long for access to good music, independent theaters, and attractive women.
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