The paper is two thirds done. I am, now, in the final frantic phase of writing, when the rest of life scurries away in the face of a looming deadline.
I am close enough that I almost believe it’s possible.
Earlier today, I took an especially long walk and remembered to buy beer on the way home, which I promised myself I could drink if I wrote enough. I realize that I everything I do has become a Pavlovian strategy: write three pages and you’ll get a beer; write three more and you’re allowed to blog; finish the damn paper and you can clean your apartment.
Yes, I am actually looking forward to cleaning my apartment. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
If I write three pages tomorrow, I’ll let myself do laundry.