Writer's Diary
9/8/24
Writing a play means obeying the logic of relationship more honestly than we do in life, driving moments towards conclusions we try to evade.
Artists protests against death; hobbyists beg for or demand attention.
We shouldn’t keep our options open: it’s boring and lacks poetry.
A larger global population has produced fewer saints and fewer miracles.
It’s somehow telling that Rousseau had more children than almost all other modern philosophers combined.
Every single thought we have has a historical character.
Lately, when I get into bed, no matter how tired I am, my mind starts to do wind sprints. My adrenaline picks up, my heart starts to beat a little faster, and I find that I'm not going to fall asleep right away. Too many odds and ends in my life need some form of redress. There are too many things I haven't gotten to in the day. Too many projects. And then there's the world, which, needless to say, is a fucking mess.
I don't think the American project of power, money, and technology is actually capable of providing security for much longer. I find the 2020s to be a frightening, sleepless decade.
My forthcoming novel, not incidentally, about the 2010s, is called The Sleepers, and I think that was the time when we were collectively asleep—myself included. The book about this decade I might call The Insomniacs.