You wonder if you have something good to say, something better than usual because you’ve been quiet.  Time passes and the burden grows.  After a while it becomes hard to say anything at all.  Partly I’m silent because I think it’s the better course of action.  I don’t know if what I want to say would be said if things were different.  I want to share parts of my life with you because I know and adore most of you.  But whether or not it is applicable here–and you’ve convinced me, it is– will it cause harm?  I don’t know.  And so I take pause.

It’s been warm here, as always, and stepping off the plane weeks ago was almost laughable, it was so hot.  Noel drove me out of LA and I don’t know if I can convey the dread and resignation I felt at the sight of the yellowy sky and the dirty street signs.  We passed two signs for a tattoo expo and the ad pictured a busty woman with no tattoos and I laughed at that, at how false it was.  I’m no longer surprised that I don’t mind cities like I used to, living in this one and being in LA and in Portland.  Columbus was beautiful, snow-covered and deadly cold.  The people were wild and a kid tried to fight me and I stood right in front of him staring and telling him to remember who I was.  Minutes later he threw a chunk of pavement through the window of the house and I got cut a little on the glass and Christ, how alive that night was.  Ushering people out and hiding the contraband and the moment when she was caught up in the rush to leave and there was such a pull in her eyes and it may have been too perfect to happen but our hands met as she backed away.  Days later I found her on the street in the cold and she took me to a bar and we talked for hours.  And just a handful of hours before I had to leave she called and said she was coming, and she found me, and we sat before the fireplace and eventually we moved to the couch and laid down and for an hour I wanted to kiss her and could only brush our cheeks together.  We fell asleep and woke each other up a few times and finally I kissed her, and eventually we slept again.  I regret that I didn’t tell her to warm her car up before going.  I regret not having those few minutes and what they might have held.

And then here, in the dark, with storms approaching and lined up for the week.  Gray skies look so much worse out here.    New laptop because the old broke, money I don’t have spent on something I have to have.  I wrote a prose poem that went away from where I wanted but I think is good.  Too close to really write about it, now.  Though I want to, and I think she deserves it.  65k into the third novel.  40k or so to go. 2,213 miles from where I want to be.  Less if she drives out to meet me, again.  A little gesture, a little kindness.  I haven’t been exposed to something like that in a long time.

Well, there you go, dammit.  I managed to shut up about myself for a couple posts, at least.

Edit:  Wasn’t quite clear enough re: kindness.  A great many people are good to me, and there are a few I probably don’t appreciate enough.  I meant a particular brand and a particular reception of kindness.

1. California One/Youth and Beauty Brigade ~ The Decemberists. Making Samuel’s playlist was a challenge at first, because he’s a relatively new character, and other playlists have focused more on tone and content of writing, rather than the personality of a character.  Once I got near the POV switch I began splitting the extant playlist for the novel in two, one for Samuel and one for Sam’s father, David.  I came to realize eventually that what I was trying to contain in the playlist didn’t need contained at all.  A kid is scattered, pulling himself together anew daily, finding and losing his voice constantly.  With that in mind, I set out to make this playlist contain multitudes but more importantly weaker voices.  This Decemberists track achieves quite a lot.  It’s anthemic, it sets a strong tone, and yet very clearly it’s for the more tremulous among us.  A huge thank you to The Tall Brunette for introducing me to this song.
2. The Black Crow ~ Songs: Ohia. This is as dark as things get.  This novel more than any other is marked by death–slightly odd, considering the subject matter of the others.  When I listen to this song I can’t see anything for the iridescent feather-black in my eyes, and its desperation is perfect for both Sam and David, characters who feel helpless to change the world around them.
3. Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels) ~ Arcade Fire. As made clear by the award-worthy preview of Where the Wild Things Are, Arcade Fire’s Funeral is an album for youth.  Every note hums with the weight and significance all events have when you’re younger.  Running away seems possible.  If you could walk as far as the horizon what was behind you would no longer be there.
4. 16, Maybe Less ~ Iron & Wine and Calexico. Another youthful song that speaks to the mythic, ethereal presence our earlier years have on our lives.  Where Arcade Fire brings snow to mind, this song is deep green, trees and vines and cut grass, a song of summer.
5. Crosshair Chapel ~ Knife in the Water. This is a band few people have heard of, and I can’t sing their praises loud enough.  Excellent stuff.  Soothing, menacing, entrancing.  Like staring into the eyes of a snake.  Crosshair Chapel in particular has an apocalyptic feel to it that’s mirrored in my work.  Sam is a very perceptive kid, and he sees things are going wrong everywhere you look, and it colors his views.
6. Bottom of the World ~ Tom Waits. The world seen through the broken lens of Tom Waits’ head.  There are enough bridges for everyone to sleep under, and just enough beans and barrel fires. Sam will dream of this sort of existence from time to time, but of course he hasn’t been knocked around like the narrator in this song has.  He doesn’t know what’s out there.
7. New Doomsdays ~ Mimicking Birds. Another dark song.  I imagine this floating through my head at the bottom of a well.  This song is probably too mature for Samuel, but it hints at a depth to his character that he’ll grow into.

I thought of adding in a few of my postrock picks, but the explanations would be boring: “makes me think of the end of the world”, for every one.  And the postrock is all in another playlist anyway, for the less-human moments in the book.  I tried to make my mentions at least somewhat lesser known, and I hope I’ve exposed some of you to something new.  Next up I’ll talk a little about Butcher’s Crossing and maybe a book I just picked up, a debut novel from Brian Hart called Then Came the Evening.

Let’s backtrack a little.  The house in Riverside has been empty since Monday.  I helped my fellow Ohioan move out for most of the day and was paid in food.  Found out I’m stronger than I thought–was pulling a bookcase out of the van when the housemate asked if I needed help, and I just slung it up and took it around, said, “apparently not”.  All of this being undercut by the cold that fell on me hours after and has been an annoyance since.  Thanks for all the food, Kelly.  I ate most of it already.

I made sure I had everything packed Wednesday, cleaned things up a little.  Noel drove me to my reading in LA, at Avenue 50.  The Splinter Generation folks put together an excellent event, I thought.  There was beer and wine and a little food.  Kate Durbin, who graduated a few years ahead of my entrance to Riverside, read, and was very good.  Lisbeth Prifogle read this, and I read “My Wakeup”, making the prose readings very war-centric.  To pat myself on the back, at the end of the evening I went up to Lisbeth and shook her hand, thanked her for serving.  She thanked me for serving, too.  I told her I hadn’t.  There were some musicians, and some poetry read by Scott Miller, who’s the poetry editor for Splinter.  Some great, fun stuff from him.

Nico showed, with some friends.  He proved to be every bit as cool as expected.  He fed me waffles and we played Geometry Wars.  We went out to a bar called Footsies and had whiskey, met up with some of the heads of Splinter and one of the bands.  Talked a little lit.  It was a great time.  We headed back to his place after and Nico played his guitar for I don’t know how long, just fiddling, and it was really soothing.  The man is skilled.  We went up on his roof and looked at the lights of town, saw a surprising number of stars.  He also exposed me to This Will Destroy You.

We listened to them while heading to LAX.  Probably the most stirring and fitting music for leaving a place like California.  All the lights and the buildings, the curves of the 101.

Most of the rest is a blur.  I slept a wink or two on the plane, got delayed in Denver, caught about an hour of sleep there, and flew to Columbus.  Sick flying, stress, no sleep.  Weird looking out my old window.  A little strange seeing bare trees.  It’ll be good being here in my old room.  I’m writing a story that’s nearly non-fiction.

Go submit something to Splinter.  More later.

It’s not that I’m numb or disconnected.  I’m where I want to be, given my means.  This is what I wanted.  I come alive on the page and otherwise I’m not invested.  My heart rests.  But that’s not true.  Broken up into these pieces, there are phases, moments, quadrants, in which I literally shake.  I feel so strongly about some things these days.  I’m up against a wall with one part of my life and with the others I grab at the thin air.  I feel surrounded by absurdity, by irony, by things so abstract I can’t discern any meaning and I see people relishing in them.  I’ve been rededicating myself.  I found myself searching for a kind of morality in Ohio and here I see its opposition.  I know what not to be.  I know where I stand and I know what’s below me.  We all walk on the bones of the dead.  It’s not something I’ll forget.

My field of vision narrows.  My interests dwindle.  I love the writing I’m doing.  I’m trying to read Notes from the Underground and I struggle because it’s so self-indulgent.  If it’s not a story of sacrifice and toil I am repulsed.  This is my Metamorphosis, except I wake up in bed to find myself a bitter old man.  But it’s good that some people write about other things, about themselves like I am now, about tripe like “the boundary between public and private”.  If everyone wrote something of moral import I’d have a much harder time getting noticed.

I’m trying to become more moral.  To live the way I write.  It’s a code I believe, it’s just not something I’ve been able to follow yet.  I find myself becoming a little harder again.  I don’t blame God for anything anymore.  I find myself becoming more religious.  I’ve asked him for something twice, recently, and I won’t deny it was selfish.  But I haven’t been confronted with anything I wanted that deeply in so long.  Ten years.  He didn’t grant me my wish and neither did the stars, and what does that mean?  That the alternative is better, I hope.  Not that it’s His plan, and He had it ordained this way, but that the compromise is too costly.

I feel best when I’m my own master, and I feel better knowing there’s nothing to lay blame on but myself.  I’m taking that weight.  The weight of the future, of the distance.   I have an idea of what’s to come.  The end isn’t clear but the path is worth it.  She’s worth it.  She and California, the distance to and from, the miles to Ohio.  When we started talking she had a path of her own, a long trip, and she told me she’d be better for me for having taken it.  It’s coming true of me, too.  I want to wear my bootsoles thin walking to her.  And if she’s not there I can still say I’ve gone those thousands of miles.

I have a problem with people calling writing anything other than exactly what it is: a person sitting down (or standing, whatever works) and writing to get an idea out of their head for others to have it.  It is not a prayer, it is not a scream, or howl.  Whatever torture it puts you through comes of your own self in a way that even the idea did not.  The idea came from your life.  The need to bleed for it is all you.  Whatever asceticism you subject yourself to is of your own doing, and if that is necessary for you to write, so be it.  But because you hang yourself on a cross every evening doesn’t mean you and I are saviors.  I pay $2.50 for coffee for every thousand words or so.  What, then, would you call me?  Whether you claw at your hair or pace grooves into your floor or you travel to a mountaintop or you sit quietly in your room, it is your work that makes you what you are.  It is not the action that produced the work.  The word is all.  I have as much respect for Marilynne Robinson as I do for Ernest Hemingway, and I do because they both wrote incredible pieces of literature.  To my knowledge, Robinson never served in any army, never drove an ambulance, never hunted or played at hunting U-boats in the Atlantic.  These are things that increase my esteem for Hemingway’s life separate from his body of work.  I would love The Sun Also Rises whether written by a hero or a coward.

And let’s not inflate what a writer is.  They are simply that.  Storytellers.  A good storyteller is obviously different from a bad storyteller but it’s the story that’s important.  You can blow smoke about writers being priests or prophets but everyone has something they can do well and only artists are given to the notion that they are particularly special.  When you get your car back from the mechanic and it runs you don’t spend time thinking about the  mechanic and what brought him to where he is.  You just drive.  You ought to think about the writer the same way you do the mechanic.  Each performs a service or creates a product and it is the quality of that thing which is important.  The only thing the writer ought to have of you is loyalty if he produces a quality product.  It’s delusional to ask for more and to think that a writer deserves it.  Embrace the work, love the work.  When I say I love McCarthy, I mean that I love McCarthy’s work.  He’s an interesting guy separate from that, but my interest in him arises primarily from my desire for him to write more books.  That’s how it ought to be.  It’s bad for the ego for you to think anything else.  And despite all of our metaphysical trappings, despite that our occupation itself is a unique one, we aren’t special.  We are certainly no more special than nurses or doctors, and certainly less deserving of praise than police officers, firefighters, and soldiers.

What a reader needs to take away from a book does not involve the writer.  I won’t delve any deeper in the Barthesian pool than to say that an ideal reading of any book begins with the first page of the text and ends with the last.  Any thoughts in between occur in the mind of the reader and nowhere else.  Don’t bring a dictionary, a biography, or Wikipedia to the party.  Ultimately no writer is going to quit fellating or cunniling-ing themself because I said they aren’t special.  It’s the truth, but it’s the reader I’m trying to reach, not the writer.  We’re a crazed lot to begin with.  But we’re not mystical, we’re not any more in tune with the universe because we put words on a page than anyone else.  It’s a unique occupation that’s not a little bit mysterious and more than a little attractive.  People like people who live on the edge, and whether it’s the edge of starvation, sanity, or megalomania, the edge is where writers tend to be.  But don’t love the writer.  Love the book.  If it’s good it is the best of the writer; blood, sweat, tears and all other precious bodily fluids distilled whether shed or not, into a story, a message.  Don’t ruin all our good work by wondering how dirty we got in the process.

Tune in next time for part 3, the anticlimax that I will call “In Defense of the Writer”.  Or some such stickuptheass nonsense.  Until then, here’s J. Tillman, telling it like it is.

This post will be one in a two or three parter, provided I feel like following through with it, on the capital letter issues of writing.  Truth and big W writers. Maybe a little Beauty thrown in for good measure.

Being in an MFA program, surrounded by writers, some of us are bound to get a little lofty, a bit high-fallutin’, a tad too big for our britches.  A few days ago one of my profs was trying to inspire us, I think, by telling us that writers are like priests.  We’re ascetics, like no other profession in the world.  Who else locks themselves up in a room for hours on end to make money–and that only if we’re lucky?  We close ourselves off in order to create, spend hours and hours observing, making notes, waiting for inspiration.  When you get on a train of thought like this, you inevitably get a little misty-eyed, a little mystic, and you think of muses.  It’s a subject we dance around, for the most part.  No one wants to out and out say they’re receiving messages from some divine source, right?  Idn’t that a little hokey?

While that’s rhetorical, the answer is yes.  And despite that, people do say they’re tuned into otherworldly channels.  And it’s a channel with a lot of viewers.  I submit to you two stories of disparate success:  The first is Alicia Ostriker, whose book of poetry The Volcano Sequence was channeled to her by a volcano after a period of writer’s block.  Ms. Ostriker is published, many times over, and is, I guess, considered a success.  I got the chance to hear her read.  She wasn’t any good, in my opinion.  I’m backed up by other opinions, but apparently it’s the minority opinion.  Nevertheless, this woman had a book of poems beamed into her head by a volcano.  There’s one end.

On the other is a girl from way back.  I told this story on my old blog, so if you’re an old reader you can skip on down.  Beginning Creative Writing, we’re discussing the muses, the possibility thereof, opinions thereon.  This girl pipes up, says, “yeah, you know, sometimes it’s just like someone is speaking to me, the words just flow”.  You wouldn’t question this if it came from the mouth of Marilynne Robinson.  But this girl’s contribution to world literature is a story about making out with her boyfriend “like a wild hyena”, while Disney’s The Lion King played in the background.  Whatever you’re plugged into, I don’t want to be party to it.

The higher you get in the writer echelons, the less you hear about inspiration, about muses.  People talk more theoretically about what it is that’s fueling them.  My money is on the subconscious/unconscious.  I can tell you exactly when I’m getting inspired, because I can feel it.  You, observing me, can see it.  I zone out, clam up, stare off.  There’s nothing mystic about it.  It’s cool as hell, sure.  But it’s not mystical.

Washing your hands of the muse is a good thing for all of us.  There’s no reason for the occupation of writer to be so mystified, unless by proxy there is reverence for the text.  I’ll never be a guitar god, but that doesn’t mean I think Jimi Hendrix was anything more than highly skilled.  Killing the muse is good for the writer, too.  I doubt you’d ever come across a professional writer who waits to be inspired.  (I could cite sources, if you like.)  With inspiration in and on your head, you do what all the pros do: treat it like work.  It’s a grind like any other.  Some of us hate it, oddly enough.  But they say they have to do it.  Feel bad for them.

So, man.  I wrote a lot and said very little.  I’m sorry you’re exposed to such diarrhea of the mind but at least it’s not getting put down elsewhere.  What I wanted this to do, in part, was attack the notion of the muse as an external force, knock down some stilts writer’s might be standing on, and build a foundation for a post down the line on big W writers.   Notice it was Shelley, not Byron, that said that poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.  Byron was too busy getting laid and saving Greece to say something as self-serving as that.

I mostly said that to piss off the Shelley fans.  But I’ve got a little point hidden in there, and I’ll write about it later.

Good Halloween party, that.  Chauffeur and I shonked the competition at flip-cup and beer pong.  We went to the party as each other, which was a good laugh for the few people that were familiar with us.  I donned  a pair of fairy wings for part of the evening.  At some point before I bedded down with a laundry bag as a pillow, next to a girl nicknamed Armyfuck, Chauffeur and I managed to switch back into our own clothes.  Neither of us remembers how this happened.  It’s the great mystery of the evening.  The next morning we bailed a bit early and got breakfast at this great joint called Flo’s.  Come’a the pancakes.  Sometimes this place ain’t so bad.  Then you come home like I did today to a parking ticket and an overdue fee on a book.

Soon, I promise, a writing post.  You pick the topic:  1. On the muses, or 2. On how I write in two completely distinct voices depending upon whether it’s a short story or one of my novels.  Pick the first one, please.

Hovering under 39k on AAM.  Started writing a new short story tentatively titled “Anhedonia”.

Oh, hell, I didn’t tell you, did I?  I was invited by the good folks at The Splinter Generation to read “My Wakeup” at Avenue 50 in LA.  December 16th, 7-9PM.  Mark your calendars.  I’ve got a practice reading tomorrow in class.  Wish me luck.

Aaand one last thing.  00:50-1:22 and 3:16-3:27 of this video.  Killer.

It was almost ten years ago that I fell in love with a girl who cannot be overstated in my life.  I don’t remember how exactly things came about–I don’t recall any seduction.  I remember sitting on the sidewalk with the sun beginning to set, thinking about God, and her, and hoping she’d come outside.  And she did.  From then on, for a good two years, she was what I thought about, straight, solid.  There wasn’t much else.  She was my first, an early first, depending on who you talk to.  The second time we made love it was to this song, on repeat.  I had just turned sixteen.  The stereo was this modern-looking thing, all gray with blue lights.  I think I remember how she felt now better than I did a few years ago.

She was pretty hard on me.  Broke my heart.  I was who I was then, and that was considerably weaker than I am now.  But she set me on this path, and I wouldn’t change any of it.  Still getting roughed up from time to time.  But I guess I grew an appreciation for that, too.  Writing fuel.

She sent me a letter last night, apologizing for everything.  It was sort of shocking, bewildering, and completely plain.  This was the sort of thing that happened in movies, you know?  Girl of your dreams, the first girl you put away in that hallowed part of your mind or heart, comes to you and says, “I did you wrong”.  I wasn’t sure what to say to that.  So I told her I accepted, wasn’t even really sure she needed to apologize, given who I am now.  Where would I be if she had treated me differently?  Who would I be?  Husband to her, father to three, first kid aged six?  What a difference.  And I’m not knocking that, either.  Lord, but I loved her.  That could have been a great way to live.  But it’s not what happened.  I didn’t repeat a generation, didn’t become my father–though I am becoming him in many ways.  You all know where I am now.

It’s life, yeah?  You do things that make you who you are and make other people and you don’t realize until later, long after things have sealed, the mortar has dried.  What do you say to that?  I don’t think you say anything at all.  You smile a little sadly, maybe you shake a hand or offer a hug.  And then you move on.

Two nights ago I went out with Chauffeur (one word, goes with his nickname for me) and a girl to a supposed dive downtown.  We had burgers and beer, had a shot to celebrate the girl’s birthday, and went across the street to check out another bar, a little closer to an actual dive.  As we walked in a fellow playing pool turned and put his hand in the air and I high-fived him and shook.  As we waited on our beers he pointed at the three of us and the bartender wouldn’t take our money.   We drank and went out to the back to let Chauffeur smoke and watched this half-pint latina with a lot of metal in her face rap very, very poorly in front of a camera.  (Riverside, side, side, on the mike, mike, mike…ad nauseam.)  We went back in for a while and met Joe, our drunken benefactor, play pool with one hand–his non-dominant.  He’s apparently some sort of drunken savant, because he was sinking shots pretty consistently.  I followed Chauffeur back out for another smoke and we were making fun of the rapper when we realized she was still at it, still saying mike, mike.  We dove behind a brick wall and laughed for a good five minutes.  When we went back in Joe decided to give us a tour of downtown and we followed him directly next door to a gay bar where he bought us more drinks.  We moved on, discussed random things.  Chauffeur and I wandered off briefly to look at a war memorial and I remember telling him that I write because I didn’t serve, and that’s mostly right.  I wouldn’t feel like I have to write if I served.  It was a good night, maybe the most fun I’ve had since I’ve been here.

Yesterday I moved everything out of the apartment and into the new house.  I don’t know how to feel about that.  I should feel good to be shut of it, because truly little good happened there.  And this, here, is all new.  As fresh as can be without a bout of amnesia.  But I couldn’t help but feel like I was giving some things up.  Signing off on memories, devaluing them.  I don’t like that.

In the evening the owner of the house, another grad student, took me out to a coffeeshop downtown on the back of his scooter.  I got some writing done.  And today I went back to the apartment to clean it and I was struck again with the knowledge that I am leaving one of two places that I’ve known her.  I stared at that damn futon and at the couch and the pool and the lounge chair as if I could place them more firmly into my memory.  But they’re already relics.  Already cherished in their way.  Walking back home I was taken by the smell of the orange trees and I stood at the intersection of Canyon Crest and MLK, standing in the thin shadow of the lightpole, this song came on:

I watched a woman pull up to the light in a rusted truck, watched her look at me.  She was beautiful, and it was a romantic contrast.  When I crossed I glanced her way again and she locked eyes with me and I passed on and I thought about the few times a woman has touched me out here.  A hand on my shoulder, arm around my waist.  I thought about reservoirs, literal and figurative.  I thought of how quickly my reservoir dries out here, how soon a night like Wednesday can fade.  It’s not a matter of whether or not I can make it.  I know I can.  It’s whether or not I come out the other side having gained ground, rather than lost it.  I haven’t regretted the way I’ve spent my life so far, and I’d hate to start now.

I love the hell out of this song.  The voice just barely holding onto its hushed tone.  You can hear Beam biting on the end of every word.  I picture teeth chopping at the microphone.  I think I’m exaggerating a bit, but when I sing it I can’t help but sing it loud.

Anyway.  That song is one of 90 on the “refined” playlist for AAM.  Refined from 221.  I wanted to share the brief story of my good day.  It’s brief because it’s been good only for about 5 hours, since I started writing at the coffee shop.  The fellow at the counter knows me by now and greets me warmly.  I asked for coffee and apparently I’d earned the honor of a house mug, as he took one down and gave me my coffee in it.  I love getting coffee in different ways from drinking other things at a coffee shop.  The first time I drank coffee and liked it was in Valparaiso, Nebraska.  I had it doctored heavily but I still felt strangely adult, accomplished, looking out at the fields around the bed and breakfast.  I’d run away from home, you could say, and came to that town through a series of odd coincidences involving my first book and second heartbreak.  It’s one of my favorite places on Earth.  I ate grilled chicken sandwiches for lunch and dinner and drank beer and got the strangest look when I showed the lady my Ohio ID.  I drove 14 hours to get there.  God, it was worth it.

Right, so, I was talking about this cup of coffee.  In a black and white mug with kitties on it.  Drinking the coffee and sitting at my laptop, man, did I write.  And I looked over earlier passages for reference.  I had myself grinning.  You know that’s a good sign.  Or that you’re delusional.  I chose to believe the former today.  I wrote, and things showed themselves, and the dialogue was sharp and the threads came together.  I finished a scene and started another and I feel good about the openness of it and about what’s coming.

There was an MFA reception today, and I zoned out for a good part of it, sitting in a corner, and for the first time in a while I felt my tanks getting refilled.  I can’t remember if I’ve talked about it on here or not, but my subconscious sometimes puts the rest of me on hold and makes me sit wherever I am and space out while it drinks something in.  It did that today, and I remember getting a few looks, had a fellow come over to me and tell me I was marginalizing myself (nice guy, pretended he was my dad so I could pitch my book to him–I guess as an exercise in clarity).  But lately the only voice that’s been coming to my mind was that of Samuel, the main character’s son, who will eventually take the reins of the book.  It’s great to feel that voice, and it’s great that it’s so insistent.  He’s hounding me.  I know I’m bordering on hokum, here.  Believe me when I say I don’t plug myself into the ether like some writers feel they do.  But there is an element of writing that you can’t pin to the conscious.  And it’s lovely when that element shows itself.

I wrote about 1,500 words today, 500 over the weekend, and I’m set for another easy 500.  Gravy.  Now let’s just hope I can find the time through everything else to keep up this pace.  Might have to start foregoing sleep.  It’s not like I really need 8 hours a day anyway.  Not like I’m working, or anything.  Looking back, this post wasn’t very brief at all.  Guess I lied to you.