According to the nice man handing out tracts in the subway station below my workplace, the world is going to end on my birthday next year. (Details.)
As someone prone to equal parts self-loathing and self-absorption, and raised in a constant state of Rapture-readiness, I can’t say I’d be surprised.
Either way, and I hope you’ll indulge me in this drama-queen moment: I hereby declare the next twelve months my shit-or-get-off-the-pot year. When May 21 rolls around again, I will have completed a full draft of this (first) godforsaken book I’m writing, or I’ll do something else with my life.
There’s been a lot of brouhaha lately about the impossibility of writing books in the Internet era, so, to be clear: I attribute my slowness not to the supposedly-ADD-inducing properties of the online world but to my own limitations and lack of discipline (and day job).
Colson Whitehead said it best back in February: “Sure am glad Shakespeare found that wifi-less cafe! Or no Hamlet!” He went on: “I dig the need to kickstart things every once in a while, but don’t blame the internet for your crappy work habits.” One of these days I’m going to turn those tweets into a needlepoint wall hanging. One of these days after I finish the draft, that is.