Anne Lenhart recently suggested the following ideal schedule:
7:30 – wake up
8:30 – 9:30 – yoga
10:00 – 10:30 – shower and breakfast
10:30 – 1:00 – read
1:00 – 1:30 – lunch snack
1:30 – 4:30 – golf/horses/making stuff
4:30 – 6:00 – nap
6:00 – 10:00 – hang out
10:30 – bed
I’d like to counter with the following:
6:30 – Wake up
7:00 – Watch game show bloopers on YouTube
7:30 – Ride your bike
8:00 – Giant Breakfast
9:00 – Morning Nap
9:40 – Reading in the Garden
11:00 – Think about what you’re making for lunch.
11:20 – Start making lunch and calling friends while they make lunch.
12:00 – Lunch
1:00 – See a Movie
3:00 – Too-Early Cocktail
4:00 – Pet the Cat / Afternoon Nap
4:45 – Pick up your friends in your car and drive around to different grocery stores in Queens picking up ingredients for dinner that you can’t find anywhere else like burdock and Shacha.
6:00 – Drink wine and cook and fellowship
9:00 – Some people go home but some people stay
10:00 – Look at Instagram
10:20 – Bed
My senior year of high school I did a performance project in which I looked at the life of Andy Warhol and created a piece — I think it was about 25 minutes — ostensibly about his life, but actually (not so secretly) about my own life. Such are the assignments of a theater teacher asking students who are 17 to look into themselves and make something great without making something awful.
I had forgotten about the piece until this fragment of footage showed up. This is only two minutes of the piece, but I think you’ll agree that it’s totally bonkers.
- Thyme of Your Life
- Michael Bay Leaf
Him: I thought his short stories were too sad.
Me: That’s basically all I care about. Sadness.
Identity Theory asked Dan Chaon about his writing routine. I think his answer is the best answer I’ve seen regarding this ever-present question:
Describe your writing routine.
Gaze out window. Smoke cigarette. Write sentence. Walk the dog. Write more sentences. Smoke more. Gaze more. Write more sentences. Feel depressed. Take a nap. Write more sentences. Drink coffee. Surf the internet. Write more sentences. Feel especially depressed. Write more sentences. Consider suicide. Drink a few beers. Write more sentences. Take another nap. Gaze out window.
Somewhere along I-95
I finally come to understand
this thing called road blindness,
having centered myself in deep thinking
about what some character would or wouldn’t do,
some mystery of foggy logistics,
for a indeterminate sum of seconds,
coming out of it to
sudden swaths of cadmium forsythia
along the shoulder,
followed immediately by
a road sign for Glastonbury,
which is the hometown
of this one impossible love of mine,
you know the type,
who keeps appearing in my Facebook feed,
and Google Reader, and Email Inbox,
because people send me this shit not even thinking.