These are extraordinary times we're living in, and this chair is really uncomfortable. My upper back and shoulders never bothered me till we got this chair. Plus I think its skanky seen-better-days upholstery is filled with dust mites and other allergens. I'd like a leather club chair. Not leather necessarily but something with a smooth wipeable surface. There's a tiny room off the kitchen where I keep all my books on handsome floor-to-ceiling bookcases. It's a sunny, cheerful little room, from whose large windows frolicking cats and squirrels are always visible. I keep intending to take it the last few steps, make it a truly comfortable place to be, a pocket of space into which I can disappear. Right now it's still a storeroom for miscellaneous crap. The best thing about it (apart from its pleasingly small dimensions) is that unlike the living room its door has no glass. Real privacy is possible. I tend to make faces when I write, mouth things silently, squirm, furrow my brow, roll my eyes, stare stupidly at the wall, you name it. I'd prefer to do things like this without fear of observation.

Will this result in more writing, more dedication and self-discipline? I ought to promise myself. If I promise myself I almost always come through. I can be formidable, I wouldn't like to face myself if I flaked on such a promise. It makes me nervous just thinking about it. People are constant sources of disappointment, including me. But I have made some promises to myself recently and come through, even exceeded expectations, which has been both gratifying and a huge relief. Fear of failure is such a powerful motivator.