I think it’s Monday. Meetings are stacking up like airplanes overhead. Email filled up with job stuff before 9am. Right now it looks like I won’t even get to leave the hotel for lunch. The thing about being a writer is that, even if I could afford an assistant, most of the work can’t be handed off to someone else. You can’t delegate doing the interviews, approving the pages and sketches, going over the schedules and setting the price points, travelling to the places and sitting in the rooms. A hundred books just arrived in the hotel room for me to sign. It’s an entire (orbital) operation that is based pretty much entirely in my head. Most days it’s fun. Today I would like all those things hanging over my head to move on to another airport. I think it’s Monday. I could be wrong.

 

Re-reading: SCULPTING IN TIME, Tarkovsky