One of the things many professional writers will tell their non-writer friends is that they force themselves to write every day, that they quite literally schedule an activity many of us view as something quasi-spiritual that just, kinda-sorta happens when the mood is right. And, for some people, inspiration does indeed descend upon them. The problem is, you can't just sit around and wait for Calliope to swoop down with her coterie of fellow muses and breathe life into your dissertation. Now, my id (I do hate to draw upon the friable language of the psychoanalysts, but it works here) really wanted me to sleep in today. My id also really wanted me to spend the entire day listening to Cheap Trick and Sonic Youth while playing Mah-Jongg.
So, instead of listening to that wretched little guy (I've anthropomorphized my id now...great), I wrote a bit more in my chapter on Disgrace.
Oh, and then I took a nap and played Mah-Jongg while listening to Cheap Trick and Sonic Youth.
For tomorrow: Read a bit of Elizabeth Costello or some criticism.