I have not had more than 4 consecutive days off from work since last summer, and even then, those days were structured: Jacob was home with me, and we made plans. I have not had this much time to myself since – well, I don’t really know when. I’m not sure I ever have.

I wrote for six hours yesterday. Maybe more. Of course, that’s a misstatement really – I only wrote for maybe an hour all told. The rest of the time I was reading, thinking, figuring out what to put next on the page. And at the end, I had only about 500 words written. Scary.

I wonder what the point is. I have passionately argued in the past that art can change the world, that art serves a specific purpose in society, that it can influence the course of cultural shifts. I still believe that, but I’m not sure where I fit in.

This week so far has been an exploration of my lack of confidence. I feel stupid, uneducated, a little lost. I feel like the butt of some universal joke. I was so optimistic, and now I feel incredibly isolated and wrong.

I want to go home. I know my purpose there, and he looks like this:

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