When you go to your room and the blank-top, no-product table welcomes you, what do you do? You’re worth eighty-three cents in a town where a toasted bagel costs a dollar ten. The one thing you don’t is what you want to do cause if it turns out you can’t do it, then you’re through. But when there’s a wreck on the freeway there’s no way you’re good and able to look away. I know it’s a cliché.
So you concentrate on one spot on the wall heatedly and imagine that’s where you’d bang your head repeatedly. You have no idea how to spend a weekend agreeably. Write that down. You’re a writer now.
So you go toe-to-toe with a stack of white bond paper and a fistful of No-Doz. The one thing you know when you wake up eight hours later, it made a good pillow.