It’s been an odd week, marked by a caged-panther kind of restlessness that just swept on me out of nowhere.
One of the things I like — and need — about writing fiction is that other life it gives you. It always seemed so unjust to me that we only get a certain number of choices to make and a limited span of time in which to make them. Fiction, at least, gives you a way to run down some other roads, make some of those bright smashing lovely mistakes you had such a taste for when you were younger (and better equipped to get away with them).
Damn — on a plane tomorrow and once again I have left the loathesome task of packing to the last. possible. minute.