Greetings, writers—
Once upon a time in the 1980s, the British comedian/actor/playwright/satirist Peter Cook was at a party when a friend came up to him and said that he was writing a novel. “Oh really?” Cook said. “Neither am I.”
Here’s a non-comprehensive list of what I’ve done in the last week, instead of writing a novel: listened to the audiobook of Hernan Diaz’s Trust, because Jon’s going to be working on a TV adaptation, and half of American Cosmic: UFOs, Religion, and Technology, because I don’t know why; washed, primed, and painted the porch steps; read The Old Man and Me by Elaine Dundy, One Week in January by Carson Ellis, and part of An Immense World by Ed Yong; read and offered notes on Jon’s new book, which will come out next year; trudged around my neighborhood dozens of times; cleaned some walls in my house; took huge boxes to the Goodwill; ordered a new couch; worried that I was dying1; napped.
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