Holden Caulfield

Yesterday he asked me, “How’s the writing going?” as if he didn’t know.

I’m glad I didn’t waste a bunch of energy telling him the truth – that I quit television 7 months ago thinking it’d give me so much more time to write that I’d surely finish the memoir I’d been thinking about writing or a collection of short stories or something, hell, maybe just write one new piece start to finish but no, nothing like that has happened, inspiration hasn’t struck, it just ain’t happening, can’t force it, reading lots of literature instead, and making futile, pathetic strikes at a blog that just won’t catch fire.

At lunch he ate a banana and a grapefruit. Offered me some of each.

It didn’t occur to me until 2:00 the next morning that he knew exactly how my writing was going.

It’s a little like walking down a dark street alone thinking you hear footsteps behind you. Every time you stop, the footsteps stop, too.

Why is it that even at their most real, some people are still phony slobs?