And just like that, it’s almost 7 a.m. I knew this would happen. The workshop. All day long, the workshop. It was satisfying; my students are excellent. But it tires me out, it tires me out and then afterwards I don’t want to go to sleep for hours and hours. At least I wasn’t messing around with games; I was working intensively on a macro – or Macro – in this very program, Word, considerably improving on what I did the other day, with the aim of putting together a master document for this diary. I also, before that, printed out everything I’d written until yesterday, which must mean I’ve made up my mind to read it. I haven’t read it yet. I’m curious. I want to know if there’s anything interesting here, anything that might be interesting to a reader other than myself. Why? It’s not that I want to pull the wool over the Guggenheim Foundation’s eyes and present them with this diary instead of the project; what’s more, the Foundation have expressly stated that they don’t want me to present them with anything. They just want to know what I’ve spent their money on when it comes to the end of the year. And what’s even more, I want to finish the project; it’s just that I haven’t yet reached that point, and I still have a long way to go, I think, before I do; but when I get there, and get there I shall, I’ll do the work quickly and well. I believe in myself. I just have to stop putting off the act of confronting and overcoming the vague anxiety, overcoming it and reaching my life of leisure; it’s all as simple as that. As simple and as painful. Dear reader: never dream of mixing your writing and your life. Or rather, do; you’ll have your fair share of suffering, but you’ll give something of yourself, which is ultimately the only thing that matters. I’m not interested in novelists who grind out their four-hundred-page doorstoppers with the help of index cards and a disciplined imagination; the only information they transmit is empty, sad, depressing. And deceitful, since it comes disguised as naturalism. Like the famous Flaubert. Pah.