I’m writing properly again now that I’ve retreated into the woods and yanked myself from my internet-induced slumber. I’ve dragged a table into a nice spot beneath the eaves of the cabin, and there I sit each morning until noon, grinding through the eleventeenth draft of my novel. Headphones on, cue up Earth’s sheets of slow-motion guitars, and aim for one thousand words.

Sometimes I become profoundly interested in the pattern of sunlight on the wall. Sometimes I consider giving up on writing. The routine is always the same: I spend the first half-hour stewing in self-loathing and doubt before summoning the nerve to tinker with a sentence or idea. But soon after I start, I disappear into my little world of long-haul truckers, wanna-be prophets, and a nation haunted by a sound that might be the voice of god. By now I should know the only way to outrun my bullshit is to keep writing. But I’ll probably sit and stew for a half-hour tomorrow morning.