I just can’t motivate myself to write these days. We moved into our new apartment because it had an extra bedroom, a room where we could keep the computer and desk, away from the lure of the TV and companionship. Well, the computer has a Room of Its Own now. But unless there’s an Apple Script I’m unaware of, I don’t believe it’s been doing my writing.

Work is consuming even my dreams these days. Part of my job is to maintain a website that has a million pages–seemingly scattered around without much consideration to architecture–and a thousand directories. I was trying to describe it to N last night. “It’s like, we just throw more and more subdirectories into subdirectories and it’s…it’s like the Winchester Mystery House.

“Staircases to nowhere.”

“Exactly. Hey, that’s good. I’ll have to remember that. To write about.” (Then I frantically searched my bag for a notebook, which didn’t exist on the plane I’d have liked it to.) “Can you text that to me?”

And so he did, because N cares about my writing.

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