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.
Posted by kirsten at 3:41 AM