Tuesday, January 04, 2011


Insomnia. Such that it is actually 12.29, but I won't write that until I wake (after I sleep). It is my act of defiance. Reading The Children's Book by A.S. Byatt. I remember being told by a short story writer how much he hated her. Too smart, I believe was the criticism, too pleased with encyclopedic detail. For awhile I felt guilty about loving her books. I don't anymore. She and Neal Stephenson write books I devour. Like meals. Filling books. Whole grain, sprouted, chewy bread and meat and cheesebooks. Wine-filled.

If I can sneak the least bit of their completion of their worlds into my own work, I will feel lucky.

I want to sleep to make tomorrow a novel day. New, and novel-composing. I want to not be as I just read on-line about insomnia "heckled by my own brain." An Italian family died of chronic insomnia... is dying, it is a curse. Theirs, like mad-cow and kuru, is a prion disease. Danny might be interested in such.

I'll try again now.


M.K. said...

Hey sleepyhead. I like Byatt too. Had not heard of Neal Stephenson but will check him out on your recommendation. Hope your sleeping improves. I blame my difficulty sleeping on the cat, who walks on me at all hours of the night.

kirsten said...

Stephenson has the same kind of mind, but often in the service of sci-fi... I recommend The Diamond Age first. Miss you. Love to the cat and the man.