by Michael Chabon
Well, good-bye. I hope I didn't wear out my welcome. I visit this page at least once a day, every day, without fail; I am a major TNC fan; and it was an honor, and a thrill, and a strain on my nerves, to be working in this space all week. It also took up a whole lot of my time.
I'm not sure how I feel about blogging. Not blogging per se—I can't get through the day without my Dish, TPM, io9, Daring Fireball—but my blogging; the daily act of posting. I do not know how TNC manages to do this and write a novel at the same time. I couldn't: I didn't work a lick on Telegraph Avenue this week.
I'm not exactly a slow writer—when I'm really cooking I can do 800-1,000 good, polished words in two hours, that's not bad—but it can take me a long time to get cooking, and sometimes one sentence can hang me up for an hour. (Those are usually the first sentences, in the next draft, to be cut. You would think I might have learned by now.) I have a hard time writing an excuse to one of my kid's teachers, a recipe for Dutch babies, an apologetic email, without sinking into a revisionary funk. I'm also slow to know what I think, and slow to know how I feel: we're talking reptile time, rock time, empires rising and then crumbling to dust. I still haven't decided how I feel about Sandinista!, for example, and I've been thinking about it on and off since 1980. I tried to mark the fitful shifts in my thinking over a period of about 12 hours in my previous post, about the memorial in Tucson, to mixed effect, I guess.