Even when good things happen, or lucky things, I catch myself thinking about what might go wrong; or even more basically, last night for instance, after getting very good news, I found myself thinking more about the Sixers Game 2 loss in the NBA playoffs. The mind is so inept, really, at balancing its own scales, and keeping its own accounts. Its needs, its projections, its contemplations are not only inconstant, but sometimes bizarre, or, worse, pointless.
At one time, maybe because I was more desperate and uncertain about my writing future, I used up every spare minute. Lately, I’ve had trouble to motivate myself to write in the little 5-20 minutes segments of free time that open up to me; I resist, thinking, ‘what’s the point?’ Now, the point is to create efficiently, with every spare moment, but I have trouble maintaining the motivation. I have to invent new incentives, and new structures of existence, to keep going.