I don’t know what it’s “about.” That’s what people want to know when you say you’ve written something, that’s the first question. Is it published, what’s it about?
I don’t make time for a pipeline, for blog posts. I spin a prism and hope to catch something. If I’m doubtful (like now) I start the night before. I’m picking around the corners for a secret trap door that opens somewhere else.
In an hour, we leave for the school musical. Between now and then, we need to eat and I need to suck down a beer. The other animals have been fed. I’m saving time now, for tomorrow, so I don’t have to worry about a cold engine when I sit down to write, before work.
It used to be life or death for me when I was younger, but then I got scared, gave up. It’s life or death again. It always is.