As I was moving from one study to another last week I started thinking about how dependent I am on the support of a certain set of books. It’s not that I can’t work without them, just that if I am working, I prefer to have them within arm’s reach. It isn’t even necessarily that I’ll need to refer to them (though I might) – more that they’re part of the comfortable scenery, reminders of my own intentions and ambitions (and conspirators in procrastination: if there’s something else I should be doing, you’ll quite often find me flipping through one of these books).

Here’s what’s on my desk:

- The New Oxford Book of English Verse. 1972 edition. Lime green jacket, blue lettering. Chosen and edited by Helen Gardner. Purchased for £4.50 in Hay on Wye a few years ago, during the literary festival, our annual pilgrimage. Once belonged to someone who signed their name (illegible) on the 5th of August, 1978. Some previous owner – maybe the same one – also pedantically (or appropriately?) added “D.B.E., M.A., L.Litt – Prof. of Eng. Lit. Oxford” after Helen Gardner’s name on the title page. I’m not always very good with poetry but it seems important to have some to hand, and I have a sentimental attachment to this particular bulky, out of date volume, because this is how I discovered Louis Macneice: flipping through my new purchase on the train from Hereford, the sun setting outside, the carriage cold, I found “Snow“: “I peel and portion/A tangerine and spit the pips and feel/The drunkenness of things being various.”

- Louis MacNeice’s Selected Poems is, of course, also on the desk. It has soft pages and smooth edges; my mother bought it for me one summer day in Bath and just to hold it, let alone to read it, is comforting.

- Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi by Geoff Dyer.

- Zuleika Dobson. An old orange Penguin paperback (“This edition published…in celebration of the Author’s eightieth birthday, 24 August 1952″) that I bought in Boston, at a used bookshop in Brookline, one hot September night shortly after arriving back from Oxford for the first time. I was using it for research for a while, so it’s marked up and peppered with post-it notes bearing cryptic notes like “‘Mainly architectural…’ + femininity in Oxford” that could, out of context (or even in context) be interpreted to mean almost anything you want. The post-its were bought as a joke from Urban Outfitters and all have obscenities written along the edges, like “Ass” or “Balls” or “Fuck”, so that my attempts at scholarship cannot be taken too seriously.

- The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton. I have practically written my own book in the margins of this copy so I hope I never lose it, though in a way to read it fresh (without my own subtext) would probably be a good thing for me.

- The Elements of Style. I only keep this on the desk because I feel I should. I had a professor in college who said we should all own a copy, so I went out and bought one, and I have hardly looked at it since. Still, it lends gravity to the line of volumes, and I do like E.B. White’s essays.

- Graham Greene’s In Search of a Character. Stolen (or rather rescued) from a school library. It’s a slim book but I haven’t read the whole thing; I keep it there because of the introduction – “Neither of these journals was kept for publication, but they may have some interest as an indication of the kind of raw material a novelist accumulates. He goes through life discarding more than he retains, but the points he notes are what he considers of creative interest at the moment of occurrence” – and the first line of the Congo journal: “…All I know about the story I am planning is that a man ‘turns up’, and for that reason alone I find myself on a plane between Brussells and Leopoldville.”

-Brideshead Revisited. We have at least three other copies of this in the house but this is the original, bought at a book sale in Santa Ynez, printed in 1945, with its unmistakable Brideshead smell. In the back is a National Express ticket from January 2009, from High Wycombe to Oxford. I have never been to High Wycombe, so this is a complete mystery to me. Over the years this book has come to mean less to me than it used to, but it’s still inconceivable that I could ever sit at a desk and write seriously without it being present.

-The Origin of Species.

- An uncorrected proof of Isolarian by James Attlee, which I read during my first summer here. I guess in a way I think Attlee has written the book that I would have liked to write. At first I was sniffy about this, because I wanted to write it, but now I find it rather soothing, because seeing the book there reminds me that I don’t have to write that book, – the burden has been lifted! – that I have another book (or other books, I should say) to write instead. Also, it’s very good.

- Heart of Darkness. I remember reading this in my last year of high school. I got really into it (some of my notes and essays from that first reading are tucked in the back of this flimsy copy), and I think I mainly keep it visible to remind me that I know how to read, if you see what I mean.

- Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia. I think if Kirsty Young asked me what book I’d like on my desert island in addition to the Bible and the complete works of Shakespeare, this might be it. I don’t know why but I can’t seem to grow tired of reading it; the delight intsensifies with each re-reading. The book begins to smell worn and right, the pages stained with sunlight.

- Space and Place by Yi-Fu Tuan. Because the tension described by this line: “Place is security, space is freedom: we are attached to the one and long for the other” is at the heart of (a lot of) what I think and write about.

- Geoff Dyer’s Out of Sheer Rage. For this line and a million others:

“So I went from making notes on Lawrence to making notes for my novel, by which I mean I went from not working on my book about Lawrence to not working on the novel because all of this to-ing and fro-ing and note-taking actually meant that I never did any work on either book. All I did was switch between two – empty – files on my computer, one conveniently called C:\DHL, the other C:\NOVELand sent myself ping-ponging back and forth between them until, after an hour and a half of this, I would turn off the computer because the worst thing of all, I knew, was to wear myself out in this way. The best thing was to do nothing, to sit calmly, but there was no calm, of course: instead, I felt totally desolate because I realised that I was going to write neither my study of D.H. Lawrence nor my novel.”

- Vile Bodies. There’s a chapter of this book written entirely in dialogue. It’s hilarious and devastating, hilariously devastating, devastatingly hilarious.

- Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers. I know this book pretends to be a detective novel, but it isn’t; it’s a love story about Oxford. I can’t remember who, but someone once told me it was “the best of the books about Oxford”, and I’m not sure I could honestly disagree. In any case I do remember that Wodehouse wrote of Sayers that, “It is extraordinary how much better she is than almost all other mystery writers”.

- The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton.

- The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard

“the wall between work and idleness had crumbled to such a degree for him that he scarcely noticed it was there…his best ideas always seemed to come to him when he was away from his desk. In that sense, then, everything fell into the category of work for him. Eating was work, watching basketball games was work, sitting with a friend in a bar at midnight was work. In spite of appearances, there was hardly a moment when he wasn’t on the job.”

As a couple, our primary consumerist vice seems to be buying, or at least acquiring, books. Even when neither of us has any money, which is often, scarcely a week goes by that we don’t have an influx of books, a new intake. I don’t know why or even how this is – I don’t set out to add to our extensive collection, but between buying and borrowing and receiving gifts, our extensive collection is undeniably expanding. And we have a lot of books in the house that neither of us has read – or that neither of us has read very closely, anyway. I like this because it makes it feel like my home is a bookshop: there are discoveries, as well as re-discoveries, still to be made here.

Paul Auster’s Leviathan, from which the quote at the top of this post comes, is one such discovery, made after two months of failed attempts to read a whole good book. I started with Women in Love. I began it in October, during our strange Indian summer. One Saturday afternoon, knowing this was probably the last Saturday afternoon of the year that would be so mild, so sweet-smelling and free, I walked down to the café at the end of our street and sat outside in the sun in my shorts and fedora and ordered a green tea and pretended I was in Morocco, or someplace else, at least, sipping something hot to combat the heat of the day. At the time Lawrence seemed perfect; but later, about halfway through the book, I realized I couldn’t bear to read Hermione Roddice’s voice described as “sing-song” one more time. If I read that one more time, I thought, I will crack up, I will break down. I’m not giving Lawrence up forever: just until I get a grip on myself, I thought.

So, remembering my thrill upon discovering Margaret Drabble earlier in the year, I picked up Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook. The problem here, I told myself after just a few pages, really, was the size of the book: it didn’t slip easily into my handbag, it was hard to hold open with one hand. I couldn’t go on; I would simply have to come back to it later, when I was feeling more physically able, when my strength had returned.

The perfect antidote to this problem was bound to be Paul Harding’s Tinkers – a slim, modern book, just 191 pages long, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, a first novel by a man who holds a creative writing MFA. And it turned out to be not bad, not bad at all, but not right, not quite right. I’m not giving this one up forever either: just until it’s what I need, which might be next week or might be next decade.

You never know with books, is the thing: sometimes it’s just right to read something and sometimes it’s not. It’s a lazy way of reading, yes, and I know too that my inability to commit to one book is more a symptom of my currently unpredictable attention span than anything else. But the problem for me is that reading is a competitive sport, not an idle pastime; I feel the effects very keenly, and the desire to leap up off the chair and begin writing something of my own, or to go for a vigorous walk along the river while I contemplate what I’ve just read, is often so strong that I have to suppress it every two or three pages. In the pub, the living room, the park, you can see me glancing up every few minutes, like a startled meerkat, staring at the world and seeing it anew, over and over again. So the fundamental pleasure of reading is enhanced by reading something which is personally timely; the problem is identifying what is personally timely. Who would have guessed that I would happily consume all of Amsterdam in one sitting a few weeks ago? I certainly wouldn’t; I picked it up simply because it was there, on the coffee table.

But the other night I went calmly over to a shelf in our lounge and pulled Leviathan from between The Complete Novels of Jane Austen and Toby Young’s How to Lose Friends and Alienate People, where it had been inexplicably resting for several years. I don’t know why I haven’t read it sooner, or why now is exactly the right time to read it, but I am utterly transfixed by it, which is a good feeling, a refreshing feeling. And I’m reminded that reading is part of the job, yes – as much as eating or having a drink with a friend, both of which I also count as work – but, like those things, it is also not just a part of the job.

For the past few weeks I have been trying to capture the leaves falling from the trees outside my study window on video. This is harder than it sounds; they come off in bursts, because of a gust of wind, and by the time I realize it’s happening it’s already happened. This is like Autumn itself: I always think how much I love it, the way the leaves glow and the air goes crisp, and how much I’m going to take advantage of it this year, really go for walks, really explore and enjoy it. And then one day I am at my desk, trying to capture the last yellow leaves as they come down, and I realize that I’ve missed it! Again! Already the tree nearest me is bare, save a single red leaf on the tip of a single branch, and soon the cherry trees too will be naked.

So I still have no satisfactory video footage of the leaves falling from the trees outside my study window. I do have lots of short video clips of nothing happening. Someday I will find them and wonder why they’re there. I will wonder this for about ten seconds, and then I will delete them because they’re taking up space, and who wants ten short video clips of the view they see every day?

***

Trying to capture on video something which I cannot capture on video is just one of a number of things I’ve been distracting myself with lately. (By the way, is that the correct phrase – “on video”? It seems curiously analog for a process which involves nothing more than tapping the screen of my iPhone). The problem is that I do actually have something I need to be concentrating on (namely, writing the book which is actually going to be published). I don’t mean that I can’t concentrate (I can concentrate, I sat in the same chair for several hours on Sunday and read Ian McEwan’s Amsterdam in its entirety – not a long novel, but certainly an act which requires a certain degree of concentration). I just mean that I can’t see the connections between what I’m concentrating on very well. So on the one hand I have the thing that I’m mostly working on, the thing where all of my attention should be but isn’t, quite. (Is all of anyone’s attention ever on just one thing? At least part of mine is always on worrying about whether or not I’m paying the thing I need to pay attention to enough attention instead of the thing itself.) And then on the other hand I have these other things on the fringes, which are infringing on my ability to think clearly about anything.

***

One day, convinced that nothing in the world could compel me to do good work, so why bother, I watch an old episode of Silent Witness over lunch. I’m still at my desk, which makes it seem like I haven’t thrown the towel in quite yet, or at least, I haven’t thrown all of the towel in, I’m still clutching on to one corner, like it’s a lifeline. Last week was particularly busy, I tell myself, so I deserve this hour (which turns inevitably into three). But for how long can you honestly say you ‘deserve’ something like that? When has the debt been repaid?

Anyway, watching old episodes of anything is a dangerous game for me. When I’m in the throes of a TV show obsession I am worryingly unable to cope with real life. And as a matter of fact I’ve been spending quite a lot of time watching old episodes of Silent Witness recently. After that first sneaky hour a number of others follow, until they are not sneaky anymore. I am watching an episode at lunch, an episode after lunch, an episode before dinner, an episode during dinner, an episode after dinner. I could pretend that I’m trying to find something relevant in it; that any distraction can actually be warped by willpower into something tangentially but unmistakably useful. I’m studying character development, storytelling through cinematography, whatever. But in the interest of being honest, I’ll tell you the truth, which is that I mostly watch it for the pretty faces.

Last night (or maybe this morning, at about 2 am, just before I fell asleep and had fitful dreams about solving a crime which culminated in two exactly identical bodies lying on the mortuary slabs – not twins, just two versions of the same body) – it occurred to me that I also actually just like the show. There’s no shortage of unrealistic television dramas about people who solve crimes and cut up dead bodies and do vaguely sciencey shit – CSI, the other CSI, the other CSI, and so on – but this one, for whatever reason, is my favorite. It doesn’t make me squeamish, which it should (paper cuts make me squeamish, let alone fake autopsies). It doesn’t frighten me, particularly. It walks a fine line between being too ridiculous to be worth watching and representing very finely some aspects of the human condition – elements of the soap opera combined with elements of an Ian McEwan novel, perhaps.

Between episodes, I spend some time thinking about what it means that there are so many of these kinds of shows out there and so many people watching them. I’m not qualified to speculate on this, of course. I’m sure someone somewhere has done a study on it, or written an article. But in my concentration, I don’t think to look it up. The crime element explains some of the apparently endless appeal (a number of these kinds of series have been running for over a decade) – we’re drawn to mysteries, aren’t we, they’re easy to make compelling even in an hour-long slot. But beyond that is the question of whether it is morbid or wise to surround ourselves with all of these fictional representations of mortality all of the time. These shows may not be subtle, they may not be what astute critics would sneeringly call “good television”, they may stretch the limits of our willingness to suspend disbelief, but at the core is the simple truth of life ending in death. Blah blah blah.

But yeah. Basically what it comes down to is this: I like the show because when Tom Ward and Emilia Fox smile at each other over a microscope or a corpse, it makes me smile, too.

***

To try to trick myself into thinking about the thing I should be thinking about (that’s a retrospective excuse, of course), I start a side project. Or, at least, even though it isn’t fully formed as an idea in my head yet, I describe the latest thing that’s distracting me from the thing I really need to concentrate on as a “side project” in order to validate it (everyone needs a hobby, right? So why can’t the side project just be my hobby?). I try not to make it seem too concrete, because the point at which it becomes concrete is the point at which I need to acknowledge either that it is A Thing I’m Going To Run With or A Thing I’m Going To Put On The Back Burner or, worst of all but probably most likely, Not Really A Thing At All. I try to use words that are so ambiguous that stringing them together adds no meaning: loosely speaking, I say to myself, it’s about death, depression, anxiety, memory, and purpose(lessness). It’s really very funny to me, but I don’t know why. I haven’t yet been able to pinpoint precisely what it is that makes me laugh about this.

Then, of course, I find this piece about how to write funny by Steve Almond. “As a rule,” writes Almond, “the sadder the material, the funnier the prose.”

That’s it, that’s the thing, the idea that’s distracting me, or at least that’s the idea that happens to be distracting me in the moment I read it. Take Evelyn Waugh’s Vile Bodies, which for an unrelated reason has been heavily on my mind lately. No matter how many times I read it (I’ve lost count, I’m afraid to say), it always makes me laugh. That’s a good sign: if its jokes (which seems woefully the wrong word here) relied solely on something theatrical, circumstantial – misunderstandings, Shakespearean situations – surely their funniness would, gradually, start to diminish. One can generally only be delighted by an engineered joke for so long (wordplay is another matter). But the funniest bits of Vile Bodies are the saddest bits – and the book is a tragedy, really.

There’s also Geoff Dyer, who’s at his funniest when describing – well, anything, but particularly those things which on the surface appear quite serious: anxiety, depression, aging, loneliness, ruin(s). Here he is writing about having a nervous breakdown in Detroit. It’s one of the saddest and funniest things I’ve ever read:

It was raining outside. Not a howling storm, just steady drizzle. The kind of rain that yields no sense of when it might ease up, that seems to be keeping itself in reserve so that it can, if necessary, keep going till the end of time. ‘It was raining outside.’ Gore Vidal derides someone for writing a sentence like that, feigning surprise or relief that it was not raining inside. But that day in the Clique I looked down and saw that it was raining inside as well as outside. My egg-smeared plate was becoming wet. Drops of water were falling on to my toast, moistening my eggy hash browns. As I looked it rained harder and I could not see. I was crying, not sobbing, just this steady leak of tears. And then, as I realized I was crying, I felt that I was in danger of sobbing. I got a grip on myself, stopped the leak, staunched it. I ate my wet eggs and looked at the rain outside, hoping that would take my mind off the rain inside. I’m having a breakdown, I said to myself, I’m having a breakdown while having breakfast. I said this to myself to calm myself down, to try to familiarize and render ordinary the extraordinary turn of events that had led to this internal rain. I stifled my sobs and ate my breakfast which did not taste any worse because I was having a nervous breakdown. When I had finished the eggs I wiped my knife with a napkin and spread butter and apricot jelly on the whole-wheat toast. I finished the rest of my coffee. I calmed down. I was no longer leaking tears but I was no less distraught now than when I was having a nervous breakdown, which I was still having even though I had, to a degree, managed to regain control of myself.

Why is it funny? You might ask that; I’ve asked myself that. But you might just as well ask why it’s sad. The tragedy is in the comedy and the comedy is in the tragedy. That’s right, isn’t it? Like Lorrie Moore (who Almond also mentions in his article). What makes A Gate at the Stairs so funny? Certainly not its wretched outcome – or maybe that’s precisely why it’s funny. Funny for not being funny, like everything else. When I was about six years old my best friend broke her arm trying to do a back handspring in our living room. For some awful reason I began to laugh. I ran into my room with our other friend, another witness, and we giggled inconsolably, behind a shut door. I did not find it funny that my friend was scared, in pain. But something about the inevitability of the situation, perhaps, something about the irreversibility of it, elicited an involuntarily hysterical reaction – like the scene in Outnumbered where Sue submits to a fit of laughter at a funeral.

“So why are these books so funny?” Almond asks, after listing his own favorite funny books – The Catcher in the Rye, Money, Birds of America. “To begin with, because their authors reject the very premise that suffering should be treated only as an occasion for sorrow. They view suffering as something more like an inevitable cosmic joke, one that binds us all…Their characters make us laugh because they tell us the truth at a velocity that exceeds our normal standards of insight. And because they continually violate the normal boundaries of decorum, by confessing thoughts and feelings the rest of us spend our lives concealing. We’re both shocked and gratified at their candor, and so we laugh.”

***

I wish I could connect this to what I started writing about here, but as I’ve said, the bit of my brain that makes connections between things isn’t doing its job. You could blame all the TV or the navel-gazing or the short days or the pleasantly dull routine I’ve settled into or whatever, but I don’t really think it’s symptomatic of anything; it’s just the way things are at the moment.

Anyway that’s more or less what’s been going on in my head/life for the last few weeks.

In other news the leaves outside my study window are red, the ice cream truck is still driving around the block on weekend afternoons, I can’t seem to find a decent pair of jeans anywhere (but that might be because I can’t seem to bear being in a shop for more than five minutes at a time), I’m alternating between D.H. Lawrence and David Sedaris before bed, and I’ve had cheese on toast for five out of seven lunches this week.

How’s your October been?

It was one of those lukewarm September days. I sat at the front of the hall, perhaps wanting to be noticed, to be (perceived as) bold. A woman in a red and blue military-style jacket (like a drum major’s uniform, perhaps, if I knew what a drum major’s uniform looked like, or even really what a drum major was) stood before us. She wanted us to sing; this really was a sermon, and there were hymns. She said she had changed a little bit of the first hymn – Sinatra’s “New York, New York”, lyrics printed in our pamphlets – and invited Ed, her small blond pianist, to play a few bars so that we could practice the modified verse.

We sang. It still sounded like a hymn, like an English hymn sung in an English church on a rainy English sunday. It had that hymn-rhythm; which is to say, no rhythm at all. I don’t know much about singing, but I’m pretty sure that the way the English sing their hymns makes virtually no sense unless you’ve grown up singing them that way.

After we sang, I felt good; singing in public always makes me feel this way, as if I have achieved some kind of victory (in preschool I was once admonished to the point of tears for mouthing the words to a song rather than singing them out loud). But there was something unnerving about the whole thing, too. There was something strange about this woman, in her drum major’s jacket, with her Shirley Temple curls and her peppy voice, imploring us to loosen up a little, shake our limbs a little. I did not want to shake my arms or my legs like a chicken; I certainly did not want to do so repeatedly, and I most certainly did not want have to pay the bald man sitting next to me a compliment, not because I didn’t think he was worthy of a compliment, but because the compliment would inevitably be forced, even if meant – I like your shirt, I like your blazer, you have a nice smile – and therefore quite meaningless. Moreover, the first thing that had popped into my head was, “I like your hair,” which was definitely not something you could say to a bald man you had never met before. So I just looked the other way; it was easy, I pretended I was on the tube, trying to avoid looking at the person across the aisle whose knees were touching mine.

And the bald man turned to the curly-haired man behind us and said: “I like your hair.” And the curly-haired man said to the bald man, “That’s a great shirt!” And it was a great shirt; I hadn’t noticed before, but it was a great shirt now that the curly-haired man had mentioned it.

***

Then Geoff Dyer – who, even though he makes frequent reference to being tall and thin, is much taller and thinner than you imagine he is – was on the stage, at the pulpit, preaching, or, rather, speaking. He sounded a little like he might be suffering from the onset or aftermath of a mild early Autumn cold; occasionally he paused to sip from a tall glass of water. He told some anecdotes, about Americans, about the British, about the time he went to Big Sur and stood in silence on a bluff overlooking a bank of fog so thick it obscured the sea, everything, and thought how peaceful it was until an American man appeared on the scene and boomed into the quiet: “Sure is peaceful, isn’t it!” I knew I’d remember that anecdote, not because it meant anything much but because I, too, have been to Big Sur and been impressed by the way the fog rolls in and covers the coast but allows you this God-like view over it, this view that makes you think that virtually anything could be going on below you but you are above it, on the sun-bleached hillsides, in the sun. Well, yes, I thought: that is my country.

***

But then, I don’t really know my own country. I’ve probably seen more of England – percentage-wise, at least – than I have of the USA.

Last summer, on our way to Toronto, we had a layover in Minneapolis, and so, for the first time in a long time, I was in my country – though of course I had never been there before, to Minneapolis, to anywhere near Minneapolis.

I passed through immigration. The officer, who looked about my age, did not seemed inclined to interrogate me, but neither did he seemed inclined to let me through without at least making an attempt to understand the apparently complicated circumstances under which I found myself now here, in our country but his city.

“So you live in the UK?” he said, flipping through passport pages, looking at faded stamps and expired visas.

“Yes,” I said.

“But you’re going to Canada.”

“Yes. For a wedding. But not mine,” I added. I laughed, he didn’t. Maybe he was thinking it was perfectly plausible that I was flying to Toronto via Minneapolis for my own wedding to an Englishman. For some reason I started to think, what would happen if I just made a run for it? Would they catch me? Would they detain me? Would I go to jail? How would I explain it?

“So you live in the UK and you’re going to Canada and you’re not staying in Minneapolis?” he summarized.

“Yes,” I said. And he stamped my US passport, and I was home, geographically if not emotionally.

Thirsty in the departures lounge, I bought a bottle of Aquafina water with two stray dollar bills in my wallet. It reminded me of being in high school, buying bottles of water from the vending machine outside the gym during the long, hot volleyball season, which always began in an Indian summer. We would sweat our way through two hours of scrimmages and sprints and inspirational speeches. I was 14 on 9/11 and I remember that afternoon, though we’d spent all day in front of television screens, which they’d produced as if by magic and hauled into all the classrooms, it was business as usual. Drills and sit-ups and bottles of Aquafina from the vending machine. Sometimes it was so hot that we would go across to the pool after practice and leap in. Then I’d spend the long drive home wet, my t-shirt stuck to my sports bra, my hair smelling of chlorine and perspiration.

So Minneapolis is not where I’m from, but in a way, it’s part of where I’m from. The truth is that when I say “my country”, what I really mean is “my parents’ house,” “the farm my best friend grew up on,” “the bit of Boston I used to live in,” “the other bit of Boston I used to live in.” All of these tiny, disconnected places, forming a patchwork map, my map. I love my map. I love those places. I feel patriotic about street corners, particular coves and hilltops, parks and benches and cafés and long winding roads. But I don’t know what Americans are like; I don’t know what America is like. I don’t know what to think of my country as a whole. I don’t even know how to see my country as a whole.

***

I guess the trouble with being an American abroad is that you never know where you stand. Everything depends on politics, and politics cannot be counted on.

In his sermon, Dyer alluded to a period – four or five years ago, when the pound was worth twice what the dollar was worth, when animosity towards George Bush was at a high – during which Americans were treated with a much chillier, more patronizing attitude. I remember that period. That was when I first came here. I was defensive, yes, but I always imagined that people looked at you a bit differently if you were American. It was polite in those days (it may still be polite, in fact) to ask if someone was Canadian if you discerned a North American accent. I remember an aggressive and insecure compére at a comedy show, mistaking my sarcasm for genuine insult, telling me I was just another one of these Americans, spending a few weeks here, pretending to know everything, and why didn’t I just go back to where I’d come from? And then, later, realizing his mistake, he was so apologetic (“the cult of the apology,” Dyer called it, this unmistakably British instinct – “the human equivalent of birdsong”) that I couldn’t help but feel some kind of perverse sympathy for him.

But here we are now, and things have changed, and authors are giving talks in praise of Americans. And in a few years, or a few weeks, something else will change, attitudes will shift, and I, who has not moved, will stand somewhere else.

***

Then there is the issue of friendliness. The American smile. Updike’s quip: “America is a vast conspiracy to make you happy”. I started to think about this. As I thought, I realized that I was probably, even in that moment, quite happy to be in London on a sunny Sunday morning listening to one of my favorite authors dole out praise for my countrymen, scowling. I am nearly always scowling. When I work, when I sit, relaxed and reading or listening, my face contorts in a way that is comfortable for me but uncomfortable for everyone else; I’m often asked if I’m okay. Yes, of course I’m okay, I say, can’t you tell?

Needless to say, I don’t have an American smile. I was not invited to join the cult as a child, I missed the meetings where the mechanics of the smile were discussed and practiced until they became an instinct.

I used to work at a school in Oxford. About half of our adult students were Americans doing a semester abroad; the other half came from all over the world to study English. One of my many menial tasks was to print student photos onto ID cards. Even before you checked the files, you could always tell the Americans from the rest, especially the girls: they were the ones with shiny grins as big as the moon, wide eyes, flat hair, heads cocked at a flattering angle. They were not prettier than anyone else – very often the opposite – but they always gave the impression of being prettier than everyone else.

As I listened to Dyer speak about the charm of Americans, I wondered if maybe it wasn’t real charm, not always; maybe sometimes it was the illusion of charm, like those girls smiling up at me from their ID cards, pretending to be prettier than everyone else and therefore convincing me, convincing all of us, that they were.

Even I am charmed when I go back to the US; I am always amazed that shopkeepers want to have such long and involved conversations with me, that cashiers want to make eye contact with me, that the girl at the bank is so genuinely curious about my weekend plans. But I feel like I don’t know how to trick myself into being charming. I feel, frankly, like I’m not a very good American, with my scowl and my shyness and my sorries (I may not be part of the cult of the smile, but I am definitely part of the cult of the apology).

Lately, though I’ve been practicing being more American. I’ve been trying to accentuate my accent, for instance, or to raise my voice above a whisper in the pub. I suppose that the longer I’m here the more strongly I feel the compulsion to assert the fact that I’m from there, to solidify my standing as an outsider even while I feel increasingly like I am part of something.

***

After the sermon was over, after we sang a final hymn, I stood in line to waiting to ask Geoff Dyer to sign a book. I hate asking authors I love to sign books. I’m always hoping that, somehow, perhaps by looking deep into my eyes, they’ll discern that I’m special, that my appreciation for their work is special, that we could be friends, even. At the same time, I know it’s a pointless thing to do: I’m not trying to increase the value of my library, and I’m under no illusion that because an author has scribbled “to Miranda” on the title page, we have any kind of relationship.

But as I stood there before him, presenting my book and my nervous smile, I made a conscious effort to try to be more American than I might ordinarily be. I began to smile and to speak. I gushed about how much I liked his work. I said my name so quickly (perhaps, I hoped, so American-ly) that he had to ask me to repeat it. He signed my book. I said, “have a nice day!” And then I sped off with my heart thumping for no obvious reason, sure I’d made a fool of myself.

Later, waiting for the bus home, sipping a too-large chai latté like I used to do in college, the sun shining limply over Notting Hill, I forgot to care about whether or not I had made a fool of myself. I thought of this, by Jawaharlal Nehru: “But in my own country, also, sometimes, I have an exile’s feeling.” I figured that really, the only country I could claim any ownership of was the one that’s made of memory.

But seriously, have you looked at the internet lately?

I know the internet is not just this Thing, this big mouth-breathing monster that sits in the corner and grunts occasionally and then looks back down at the keyboard. But indulge me for a moment. Pretend it is. And just look at the state of it! Greasy hair, stained t-shirt, dried spittle at the corner of a tea-stained mouth. It hasn’t been exercising enough; it hasn’t been realising its potential or even acknowledging it has worth.

Sometimes (okay, a lot of times) I don’t write rants on Sundays. Sometimes I don’t write anything, all day, which is not good when that is basically what I am supposed to be doing all day, every day. But honestly, a lot of the time I can’t actually pinpoint what it is I’m thinking, or what it is exactly that’s annoying me, even when I know something is annoying me. There’s so much noise. It’s like that scene in Arcadia (which I know I reference in every other blog post), when Valentine Coverly says “There’s just too much bloody noise!” and you aren’t sure if he means there’s too much noise around his data, or too much noise in the room, in general.

I am not going to do that thing I hate and blame the Internet Monster, and say that the reason I sometimes can’t write or sometimes can’t identify what it is that’s annoying me is that the Internet Monster has been mouth-breathing in my ear all day and I’m just so…wait, what was I saying? Because I still really, really hate that. I am not going to blame one of the greatest (for better or worse) technological and possibly sociological phenomenons of our age for the fact that sometimes I sit down at my computer and instead of banging out another 2,000 words of my book I look at photos of expensive chairs and impossibly beautiful women in Barbour coats on Tumblr. Because if computers didn’t exist and I was chained to a desk writing my book in my own blood with a stick I would still find ways not to write it. I can promise you that.

But. Part of the reason I don’t write, or I don’t know what’s bothering me, or I can’t figure out what the fuck my book is supposed to be about, is because lately – in the last year, or two, maybe – I haven’t been exercising that part of my brain that ignores everybody. Everything I read or see or hear that involves anything or anyone else in some way influences what it is I think I should be doing. Which isn’t right. And because I read and see and hear a lot, my sense of what I should be doing has been completely diluted by this sense that I’m not doing what they’re doing, how can I be more like them?

I am envious or jealous almost all the time because of what other people are doing. I don’t actually know what other people are doing, of course. The lives I see online are like little icebergs, and I will never collide with most of them, so I will never know what lies beneath. But I can extrapolate from an offhand comment – “what a great day”, for instance – and, because I like to invent things, and in a perfect world I would be inventing them on paper for an adoring public, not in my head for the sake of destroying my own self-esteem, imagine that what this means is that the person who had a great day is, at 24, already a bestselling author with a Booker nomination and a big house.

I guess the thing is, there’s just so much. Of everything. I’m drowning in everything. And it isn’t that I can’t shut it off and it isn’t that the Internet Monster is destroying the world. It’s just that I’ve lost my bearings. I’m stuck in a bad maze. I’m tired of a lot of things, which is fine, but I need to know how to find the things that excite me, rather than just encountering, again and again, in different incarnations, the things I’m tired of.

There’s just so much funny, for instance. There’s so much funny that none of it is funny anymore. It’s too near the bone, or else it means nothing at all. If I read one more girl’s clever blog about her slightly zany life (and, looked at from the right angle, whose life isn’t slightly zany?) that overuses capital letters, sentence fragments and exclamation points to drive home just how FUNNY! It all is! I will probably cry. (And am I guilty of doing this? Yes. Of course I am, sometimes. I’m as susceptible as everyone else, and I know it: that’s the point.).

Meanwhile, on Twitter, that medium for even more transient expression, there are all these jokes! These one-liners that, taken out of context, are mean or meaningless or both. And all this talk about television! Increasingly I wonder if Twitter is actually just a way for people who watch a lot of TV to feel like they’re part of a community. And they can #xfactor to their hearts’ content, and Caitlin Moran can make as many quips about the contestants as she wants, and other people can retweet Caitlin Moran’s quips about the contestants as much as they like (this is not a criticism of Caitlin Moran, by the way: she is a tremendous writer, both funny and poignant, and I have a lot of respect for her). But it’s still a Sunday evening and they’re all still sitting at home alone watching television and talking about how bad it is – or, even more depressing, how good it is.

Am I jaded? Yes, I am, a bit. I’m tired of smug people telling us what they ate and wore and accomplished today. I’m tired of self-referential Techcrunch pieces, self-referential Guardian articles, self-referential tweets. I’m tired of reading blogs about how to be more productive (why do these blogs never suggest “not spending your entire morning reading blogs about productivity” as a tip for being more productive?). I’m tired of feeling perpetually as if I’m not keeping up, even when I know that everyone else feels exactly the same way, because no one could ever keep up, even if they tried.

But I’ll say again: our imaginary Internet Monster, slobbering and abused in the corner, is not the cause of my angst. You know what the cause of my angst is? My self. My negativity. It takes a certain amount of energy and imagination to sift (or, perhaps, see) through a billion photos of well-dressed people standing in the middle of the street and a bunch of blog posts about that really awkward thing I did yesterday or that really funny thing that happened to me involving a bookcase, a dildo and a dwarf, but it can be done. No one says that books should be abolished because there are some really bad authors out there (maybe some people do say that, but they’d be wrong). And no one is standing over me forcing me to spend a few hours every day looking at things that, fundamentally, are making me depressed. I’m doing that all on my own.

What is making me angsty, therefore, is not that there is so much shit: it is that I am allowing myself the luxury of getting down about all the shit, instead of ignoring all the shit. I don’t have to read the things I read, and, more importantly, I don’t have to react negatively to them.

I think maybe a year ago I was too excited about everything to ignore anything, if you see what I mean. I think a lot of us were. But now we have the greatest freedom of all: the freedom to choose what we engage with.

So welcome to the era of accountability: in which the Internet Monster stops doing the work for us, and we have to be discerning enough to discover and promote the content we actually care about, instead of being forever mired in the content we resent. No one said it would be easy.

It’s called The New Original Little Fish Paper Club Handbook™, though it isn’t exactly a handbook. The subtitle is “essays on a rock n’ roll band”, which is the closest we’ve come to describing it succinctly, and it’s being published through Unbound, which means that you – and anyone you know – can help make it happen.

I wrote about Unbound just after they launched in May, and I’m thrilled to be working with them for all of the reasons I outlined in my original post. But I’m particularly pleased to be working with them on this project, because there’s a lot of overlap between the reasons that Unbound was set up and the reasons that Little Fish – who’ve toured all over the world supporting acts like Supergrass, Placebo, Alice in Chains, Courtney Love and Blondie – chose to leave their label earlier this year, settle down in Oxford, and pursue an independent career. The intention of our book is not to cast the music industry as the big bad wolf, or to suggest that everyone should take a more DIY approach. But we do intend to explore the implications of independence, and the questions it raises, particularly for a band – questions like, “why do we play music?”, “how do we make a living doing this?”, and, indeed, “what is a living?”. (These questions, by the way, are totally transferable: as a writer, I ask myself variations of them every day).

We officially launched the project on Monday evening at an event in Notting Hill with a short pitch and a performance by Little Fish. You can watch the pitch video, read more about the project (including a short excerpt) and pledge your support (if you decide you want to) on the Unbound site. A million very heartfelt thanks to everyone who has supported or intends to support the project, or encouraged us in any other way, however small. It means a lot to me and to Little Fish.

Here’s an excerpt from the pitch and then I promise I’ll shut up about this for at least five minutes:

The New Original Little Fish Paper Club Handbook™ is a book about Little Fish, but it’s also a book about making it work, making your own way, and making stuff – music, comics, t-shirts, fishy paper squares, stickers, badges, vinyl, stop-motion animations, even books. It’s about declaring your independence and rewriting the myths you live by.

You can be part of the Little Fish story by pledging your support. Supporters will get access to a shedful of updates, photos, videos, and free exclusive downloads. And Little Fish will get the chance to share what they know – and don’t know – about what it means to be a band.

Writing takes longer than I think it does.

I used to think I wrote quickly because I type quickly. I also type a lot. I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words (probably). But I use very few of them, because ultimately very few of them mean what I want them to mean.

If I had to give a run-down of the process of writing even a simple blog post, it would go something like this:

1. Read/see/hear/do something
2. Think something
3. Write something down
4. Think something else
5. Write something else down
6. Read/see/hear/do something else
7. Read/see/hear/do something else
8. Write something else down
9. Think something else
10. Write something else down
11. Read/see/hear/do something else
12. Think something else
13. HATE EVERYTHING. DECIDE THIS WAS THE WORST IDEA EVER. Eat some cheese. Drink some cider. Have a fight about the fact that there’s no maple syrup in the house and why is maple syrup so hard to get in this backwards country? Throw a fork across the room. Break the washing-up bowl. Watch 12 episodes in a row of “Law and Order: Criminal Intent”, even though “Law and Order: Criminal Intent” has to be the worst Law and Order ever, apart from maybe “Law and Order: Los Angeles”. That one’s pretty bad.
14. Allow some time to pass (an hour, a week, a year?)
15. Keep reading/seeing/hearing/doing, even if it doesn’t seem relevant
16. Keep thinking
17. Edit stuff
18. Find a few key points, sentences, or quotes
19. Add some new ideas
20. Construct a completely new and much stronger piece around those things

So you can see how, even if I can theoretically average about 2,000 words a day, it takes me a long time to write anything. And sometimes I don’t even know that something I’m working on is being influenced by what I do, but it nearly always is. So a 1,000-word blog post, say (on the lengthy side, maybe, but not unusual for me) that only appears to take me about two or three hours to write and edit actually took a week, sometimes two. Sometimes it took a year. You never know.

In fact, everything takes longer than I think it does.
Going to the doctor. Going to the bank. Writing a piece of copy. Looking things up in the library. Flossing.

Journeys really are “the midwives of thought.”*

Sometimes I’m stuck on something and I don’t even know it. Almost always, a train journey or a long walk will help. It doesn’t fix everything, and it’s hard to convince myself sometimes that instead of staring at a screen in the hope that something might happen, I need to get up and do something that appears to be a waste of time, but often that is exactly what I need to do. Sometimes wasting time is the best way to spend time.

I love to cook.

I spent a long time thinking I hated to cook. I avoided the kitchen (Xander has often had to politely ask if I will at least come and sit and chat with him while he makes dinner). I avoided making anything more complicated than avocado on toast. I used to say, and convinced myself that I believed, that the input of energy required to produce a meal was greater than the output was worth.

But actually, I enjoy the process and I enjoy the result and I’ve been cooking a lot. It makes me feel more human and more constructive, especially when I’ve spent the day sitting in my study watching pigeons having sex in a tree and reading five essays about David Foster Wallace (is now a bad time to admit that I’ve never read anything by David Foster Wallace?) and not talking to anyone except to say no to the guy from the WWF who comes by asking for money.

I don’t work well in the mornings.

I don’t mean to say I can’t wake up and function – I can and (mostly, sometimes) do. But I don’t think very clearly. Until about 1 or 2 in the afternoon I don’t create very well. Prime time for me is between about 3 pm and 9 pm, give or take a few hours.

For about two weeks after I left my job, I fought this, confusingly trying to establish a routine as similar as possible to the one I made a deliberate choice to abandon, trying to fit “work” into the window between 9 am and 6 pm.

And I know I’m far from the first person to have this realisation, but I no longer have to work that way! So sometimes, when all I can concentrate at 10:30 am is the fact that I’ve been at my desk for an hour and haven’t done anything useful yet, I get up and walk away.

*Alain de Botton’s phrase, not mine.

To answer it, I am at first tempted to list a series of menial tasks. “Work,” I want to say, “means photocopying, copying, pasting, meeting, greeting, emailing, voicemailing.” But then I realize that work doesn’t mean these things at all. I have instead listed words that I associate with a “job”.

A job is different. People in crime dramas set in New York City or political thrillers set in Washington, D.C. are always leaning across tables in dimly lit rooms, saying to each other in husky voices, “just let me do my job,” or, “I’m just doing my job”. They are always just wanting to do the thing they’re paid to do, but somehow the way they say it – with fists clenched or mouth set in a serious expression of serious intent – implies that the payment is incidental. What they are just wanting to do is something far greater, far more noble, than exchanging time for a paycheck.

For this reason I sometimes worry about all of the workplace-based television programs out there. I worry that the portrayal of an obsessively conscientious workforce will lead, or has led, to a sense that in real life, too, we must be more devoted to our jobs than our selves. When you see people working on TV, you see office romances, office politics. You see the single mother berating herself for forgetting her daughter’s softball game, the husband whose wife sits alone at a table set for two, the boss in his office late at night, spilling sweet n’ sour chicken on his files and his fly. A job, these glimpses seem to say, is not work: it’s a calling.

But the other thing about a job is its banality. Most of a job is really just the structure of having a job: the commute (if only to your own living room), the routine, the benefits (or lack thereof), the overtime, the time off. In the end, however you look at it, whatever you would or wouldn’t do for the sake of it, a job is really just the answer you give to the question you’re asked at dinner parties and in pubs: “what do you do?”

“I’m a doctor,” you say. I’m a cop, an architect, an admin assistant, a writer, an astronaut. What you’re really saying is, “I do my job.”

***

As soon as I stop talking about a job and start talking about work, my mind leaves the office and strays into the realm of tools, blisters, stains. I often, almost obsessively, wish I worked with my hands. I haven’t yet read that book about working with your hands, partly because I worry that if I do read it I’ll want to give up everything to become a gardener, and I can’t become a gardener, because I’ve never successfully grown anything in my life, except some mold in a forgotten tupperware in the fridge. But I can make my own case for working with your hands, based what it sometimes feels like to work only with your fingers, based on the emptiness of typing, of writing emails, of finishing the day with all kinds of pent-up energy, which mostly manifests as undeserved exhaustion.

I don’t believe that work is toil, that it should be unpleasant. I believe that there should be some satisfaction in the end – not satisfaction with work having been done, with the work day having “finished”, but with the act itself as well as the product. I have done a lot of admin work in my time, and the thing about it that makes it really bleak is that the payoff doesn’t equal the input of effort. A big part of me wants to literally sweat when I work. I envy farmers, sometimes. My best friend growing up was a farmer’s daughter. We used to go for long walks and horseback rides through the fields. One day we went for a long ride near some fields that had been recently fertilized. Everything smelled of chicken shit; we covered our noses with hands or bandanas, and my friend’s sister, only a few years older than us, said how when she grew up she wanted to be a farmer.

We laughed. I had delusions of grandeur; I wanted to live in a city, I wanted to be (or assumed I would be) rich or famous or important. But I’m not laughing now, when I don’t want to be rich or famous necessarily, but I do want to feel closer to things. I like dirt, I like the smell of the earth, but more than that I like proximity between action and reward. I like when you dig up a potato and you know exactly what the time you spent planting and then later digging up the potato represents: it represents the cooked potato but also the whole meal, the experience of eating, the pleasure of eating with someone else, the sound of wine being poured into an empty glass.

***

So I find it hard to think of sitting as working.

But on the other hand, sitting is working. A lot of the work I do involves sitting, or a variation of sitting. Work means being absolutely still, staying calm, listening to the neighbor practice piano in the early afternoon as I hang the white laundry out to dry. It means reading things I didn’t think I would want to read; re-reading things I read so hungrily the first time I forgot to pay attention to. It means not writing as much as it means writing.

***

I think of Alain de Botton’s The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work. Flipping through it again today, finding old train tickets and subway cards marking places where I – in that moment, between Oxford and Charlbury, or rolling along beneath the grid of Manhattan – thought something to be significant, I come across this, from John Ruskin’s The Crown of Wild Olive:

Of all wastes, the greatest waste that you can commit is the waste of labour.

My conflict over work – my sense that sitting at a desk is both a waste of time and the best way I could spend my time – comes from a fear of wasting labor. The more I think about it, the more I understand that when I say “work”, there’s a discrepancy between what I think it means to other people and what I think I want to mean to me. That discrepancy is a cultural hangup. It’s related to how much I still think “work” and “job” are interchangeable, even when I know they’re not. It’s related, too, to the relationship between the act of work and the fulfillment of desire. Traditionally the act of work is a job and the fulfillment of desire is achieved via income. But the act of work can be anything (making a cup of tea, pulling up a weed, reading a book, going for a walk, sitting at your desk and writing a sentence followed by another sentence followed by another). Similarly, desire can be fulfilled by work in an infinite number of ways: via income, yes, but also via the joy of learning, the satisfaction of creating, the pleasure of setting up a certain kind of life for yourself.

***

So I guess when I say “work’, in fact what I want to mean is “making things” – or, rather, since I wonder if “making’ implies a sort of divine inspiration (going from nothing to something by waving a hand), what I mean is “building things.” Building implies a process of construction (gathering materials, layering them on top of each other), as well as a certain fragility, a sense that the end product is, even if meaningful, not infallible, not impervious to the elements, to time.

And I think ultimately I want to look at it this way because there is a sense in which I am always working. I have to imagine that I am not alone in this. I’m not a “workaholic”. I’m not “glued to my BlackBerry”, I don’t “bring work home”. But when I go for a walk in the evening with music in my ears, completely disconnected from everything else, I am, in a sense, also working. Thought is work. And so is the space between thoughts: every moment is an important construction material, even if that moment contains only silence, or the grey August sky pulling tight over an empty park.

So the other day, or this morning, eating my toast, I decided to browse the internet for awhile. That’s not true, of course: no one decides to “browse the internet”. What I decided to do was look at my Google Reader. Which inevitably led me to open five or six new tabs – things, I told myself, I was, or should be, interested in, essays about the decline of culture or the rise of intellectualism, sparse hipster prose bemoaning the state of politics, erudite descriptions of scenes from some cop drama or other. I kept chewing on my toast, but none of these things seemed like the sort of thing I wanted to read over breakfast; they were the sorts of things you had to concentrate on. I was eating toast; the whole point of eating toast was that for the period of eating it, I did not have to concentrate if I didn’t want to concentrate, and I didn’t want to concentrate. I hadn’t even had a second cup of coffee or a first cup of tea.

I looked at Twitter. Incidentally, I also finished my toast, but as I was now determined to find something lighthearted enough to be an appropriate accompaniment to toast, I decided that I was still not obliged to do any actual work, and that, in fact, the only thing I was obliged to do was to continue to take advantage of my lack of obligation.

On Twitter people were mostly saying “good morning”, as if announcing their presence validated their existence; or was it the other way round, was it that their existence validated the act of announcing their presence? But some people were also posting links to things. I have to click on links to things because I’m paranoid I might miss something. I hate being out of the loop, which is unfortunate because I’m nearly always out of the loop, mostly because I don’t know what loop, exactly, I want to be “in”. My attention is spread too thinly, in other words. Anyway, usually I’m not missing anything, but a few of the links were interesting enough, a few of them were, as it were, worth clicking. For instance, I found a photo essay on shipwrecks, with which I am visually fascinated. I have no compulsion whatsoever to find anything out about them, but I could look at photographs of them for hours, enjoying the sensation of vertigo I get when I see a dead ship still half-floating on the water, or “dash’d all to pieces” on the shore.

Having spent ten minutes or so considering how simultaneously beautiful and futile all human endeavors are (we build these, ships, these great big ships, and then we can’t even stop them running aground, perishing, rusting, disintegrating!), I felt appropriately morose. I decided I was ready to tackle some of the other open tabs, the longer essays, the things that might make me mad, or might at least make me think. One of them, as it turns out, was this piece by Dani Shapiro. As soon as I started reading it, I knew I would finish it. I must say, I’m very good at predicting whether or not I’m going to finish a piece of writing. And of course, as soon as I realised I was going to not only finish it but also enjoy it, I wanted to know how I had come across it. Had someone I know tweeted about it, or linked to it in a blog post? Had it been referenced elsewhere? Had I even meant to click on it? Maybe my hand had slipped and I had accidentally tapped a link I hadn’t even noticed. Discovering exactly how it had come to be open in my browser began to obsess me (though not enough to try to retrace my steps): what was the path between toast and this moment?

I came, eventually, to this:

And so I googled Beidermeier. The first thing I discovered is that I was spelling it incorrectly. The i comes before the e. Biedermeier. Next, I found myself on the website of an antiques dealer in Paris. Lovely stuff. Unaffordable. Which reminded me that I hadn’t paid the deposit for my son’s summer camp. I clicked away from the antiques dealer and onto the camp’s website. I filled out all the forms—this took about twenty minutes, and involved going through my iphoto folder to download a recent photograph of my son, which led me to relive this past year, our trips and dinner parties and weekend visitors, our bike rides and hikes and visits with his cousins—until I finally typed in the credit card number and enrolled him in camp for the month of July. Which led me to be worried about how we’re going to afford to send him to camp, to private school, hell, to college, even though he’s only in the sixth grade. I reflexively checked Twitter. I hardly even knew I was doing it. I had forgotten to respond to that person who DM’d me. And while I was on Twitter, I figured I might as well tweet.

That was exactly my path, too, I realized: that was exactly how I had come to be reading this essay. For a moment I despaired, though the essay is not despairing in tone: how could I ever write anything if I spend all my days as an amnesiac, wandering through the forest of curiosities, marveling at everything, discovering and rediscovering, but unable to remember what I had set out to do in the first place? If my sense of purpose morphed with every new sentence consumed or photograph viewed, how could I ever devote the proper amount of time to any one project?

I decided not to look at the rest of the open tabs, and not to make myself a cup of tea to justify another two-hour lacuna (tea, as opposed to coffee, signifies a break, a mental space in which, as with toast, you’re not obliged to do anything you don’t, on a whim, decide you want to do). I decided to write about my despair and my curiosity.

So I sat down and began to write about this. I wrote for some time – an hour, maybe, or two, or three. It hardly matters; what matters is that during that hour or three I did not click on anything else, I had no compulsion to tweet, or find out via Facebook which of my college acquaintances has recently got engaged, or look online for the right pair of black leather heeled ankle boots, or play with Google maps, planning out the perfect round-the-world route. And then, eventually, I had a small essay.

That is to say, I had, inadvertantly, without meaning to (in fact, meaning to do quite the opposite), done some work. The quality of work is irrelevant: that is the other thing I am teaching myself to do, along with calling it “work”. I am teaching myself not to care if, at the end of the day, all I have produced is a small essay that may or may not leave any lasting impact on anybody, even myself. And the way I do this – which may be different from the way you do this, or the way he does it, or she does it – is by treating each morning as a journey without map or meaning. There is no purpose, there is no right or wrong: there is only the possibility, if you don’t try nearly hard enough, of learning something, and then, eventually, of making something.