September 10, 2011
I will either have gotten an academic job or abandoned the search. I will have finished a dissertation, The Coffin Texts, the untitled novel whose 1500-word beginning is on the hard drive. I will turn thirty-three. So it will not be too late to change everything, if everything needs to change.
But I should write about life as it is. But its fibers are too near, and in the moments of reflection I want only to dodge them. For your sake I wish this were something else; but these days I make everything in secret, and I can’t tell you whether it’s good enough.
