"Realists are always getting into trouble. They miss the sweet, easy victories of the daydreamer."

-The Case for the Daydream, by James Thurber

Wonder what it's doing to my brain to flip back and forth between James Thurber's writings and Thomas Ligotti's. Thurber slaps convention about the face, taps it on the opposite shoulder to make it turn about in confusion, and locks it out whenever it steps outside. Ligotti eviscerates it, slowly and methodically.

Perhaps a sitcom should be written in which the character of me lives with Thurber and Ligotti as roommates. We can live in a house built out of spite to block the seaside view of another neighbor, and we don't have to pay rent but the stipulation is that all three of us can't ever be in the house at the same time; some writer must always be out confronting the world at all times. No reason for that rule; it's just a contrivance. Presumably all the characters will be forced to find something to do outside. 

The environment affects the writing, I think. Writing on my breaks at work is a world away from my midnight musings after a day of antics. At least it's something. 

One of my plans was to try to make a writing area. And a reading area, to read aloud the Moby Dick. I must leave that to the world. Or to people who may have loved me and want to hear my voice again. They'll have to sit through a classic. Ha! 

Maybe I can do all the funniest bits at least.