My car: An inventory
One umbrella, wooden handle, van Gogh print (irises, sinuous and smeary)
A jacket balled up in the backseat, turned inside out
Return of the Native, slightly rain-dribbled
A mustard-colored hockey jersey
Rabbit,Run and Rabbit Redux, bound together
A handful of battered CDs
Parking tags, assorted colors, dated March through September
One dusty thrift store find, a 1970s reprint of Orlando: A Biography

- - - -
I've been reading incessantly lately, book after book after book. The Hours. The Sparrow. Ghostwritten, Cloud Atlas, The Inheritance of Lost, Blindness. I would call it an obsession if it didn't feel so familiar, if it hadn't been such a commonplace thing in the past. I should count myself lucky, I know; there are far worse vices. And yet, there is something worrying about this latest fit. Something slightly deranged. I read at traffic lights and behind closed doors and late at night when exhaustion grips at my nerves like flypaper. It doesn't feel healthy; it isn't helping me write. Do you know what I mean?

To be honest, I think I'm reading now to force the writing. And when that doesn't work, I read more and wait. Read more and wait. One book may coax a single sentence from my own hand -- one single, perfect sentence -- but there is always the chance it will not.

At least I'm writing again, though.

There's that.

And who knows what will come with time?