Writer's Diary

4/27/26

It seems like a long time since I’ve really properly written a diary, which for me means writing in the morning with coffee and a book before a screen and before life intervenes.

I have a sense of spiritual deformity, like my ability to think in a certain way has mutated or been damaged by too much self-questioning and loss and too many inscrutable events, or maybe just the loss of habit.

I used to force myself to write every morning.

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Two nights ago I was at the Carlyle Hotel with friends (thankfully on the tab of a friend with means). I had something like, in various forms, a seven-hour conversation (from dinner beforehand around 5pm to the last drink around 12:30).