I spent the better part of the last five hours writing a single paragraph, straining to produce the words. Not surprisingly, I am not especially fond of what I have written, though I honestly do not know what more I could have done to make it any better. At any rate, I will have to content myself with having gotten something done, with the knowledge that I did not remain idle despite a tremendously powerful urge to wallow in ineffectual stasis. I suppose it did not help to start the day with yet another New York Times article highlighting the abysmal job market for humanities doctorates, but I tried to channel the anxiety that sparked into productivity. What ended up helping, in the end, was taking a long walk with the Minutemen, writing a bit of short fiction for the first time in far too long, and speaking with loved ones. Then, and only then, did I manage to write that tortured paragraph.
For tomorrow: Read or plan.