My journals reflect how busy I've been, staying out late and eventually getting sick. The gaps and erasures in my journals often say as much as what I've actually written. There's a pattern here; when I'm actively engaged in other types of writing, I have more to say in my diaries. Conversely, when I'm not, I have less to write. It's ironic, but it's true. 1
Why do I care what the monstrous machinery of entertainment thinks or feels about me? What the internet says about me? I don't know why I make appearances at parties I don't want to go to; I don't know why I think there's some benefit in giving up creative time to show that I still exist. I don't even like when people know that I exist. I would be much happier working anonymously. I wish I would have created some kind of pen name, some kind of stage name, to work by a long time ago.2
I don't know why I try to extract the maximum from leisure and from study. Books are starting to lose their pleasure for me. I've lost the ability to get lost in a book. I read largely as a corrective to all the stupidity that burrows into my brain every day.3