the boring novel

Woke up at 5 am which is nuts for me, gave myself a few minutes to fall asleep and didn’t so I got up and wrote for a couple hours.  Began trying to make a relationship between not knowing about Chiapas and not knowing what went on between people having sex. Worried, again, about starting a book with passages about a boring job.  Well trod territory, a friend said to me last spring, and I remain freaked out.  We now refer, warmly, to “that boring novel” I’m writing.

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