what do you want? to write (a shred), to read (up next, on my list)

But what do you want? a friend asked, and I said (hurrying past, on an errand, again), Time.

I'd give you some of mine, if I could, he said.

I believed him. I walked on.

This is a Sunday. I claim it as mine. I spent the morning writing a shred of this strange new inchoate book of mine, the one that will take a very long time; let it take a very long time. I don't want to be in any other imagined space than this one. I don't want to write to be done. I don't want to know, even, if the world will want this book of mine. I just want to write it. Twenty-five thousand words in, and who knows what the hell will happen next. I write to find out. I write to invent the language that this story must be told in.

This afternoon I will choose among the books I have lately gathered unto myself and read. Little Failures. Brown Girl Dreaming. Rain Reign. I'll Give You the Sun, The Dinner. And also, a gift from Daniel Torday's publisher, The Last Flight of Poxl West, which is due out in March and which has been called many great things by many great people.

A writing morning. A reading afternoon. The gift I gave myself for Christmas.

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