Apparently cycling and writing do not mix. I typically have one full day off per week, which means that I have to choose one or the other if quality is the goal. When I take the mountain bike out, I like to push myself. By the time I get home, the body, which happens to contain the mind, is kaput. So today was for writing. I think I like where this story is going, or not going, depending on how one looks at it. I’m a big fan of Sam Beckett, who irritates some readers, but his meandering anti-stories confront readers with the inescapable labyrinth of language unfolding in narrative consciousness. That’s my influence here, which is not to say that I’m achieving that goal—but failure is also a means to an end, to paraphrase Beckett.

In other news, I’ve moved my writing space to a different room, which helps quite a bit. Wood floors are a must for clacking typewriters.