Monday, June 16, 2003
I woke up this morning, an hour and a half later than I'd intended, and lay staring at a bright patch of sunlight on the bedroom ceiling, trying to recall which day of the week it was. I knew it was either Sunday or Monday, but it took me a few minutes to be sure which.
I wrote 1,045 words on Chapter Five of Murder of Angels yesterday. Four hours spent in a tiny white hospital room, inside the heads of a schizophrenic and a disenchanted psychologist. It left me in a distinctly unpleasant place and I cancelled plans to have dinner with friends. I spent the night getting my head back and today I have to go to that unpleasant place all over again. Recollect those emotions in the tranquility (or boredom) of the moment until, by sheer force of contemplation, the emotion exists in my mind. The bottle of absinthe on my desk might help. And it might not. I can never really say until afterwards.
At least I've started Chapter Five.
I'd rather be a million places today than sitting at this keyboard.
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