There are times when I find the kazillion little e-mails of my life annoying, but there are also times when being a writer is just fun.
Was nicely productive on the plane, rewriting some material in third person to make it hopefully more vivid, breaking up one section to add some energy overall, making some minor tweaks. Just had some airport sushi for lunch (yes, it was sad sushi, but I could estimate how many calories were in it, which is a help while travelling -- I have no idea how many were in the half of a lowfat lemon poppyseed Starbucks muffin I had for breakfast) and now I'm off to find my train. Should have a good hour or so before boarding, so hopefully will write some more, or at least keep reading in the issue of Fourth Genre I brought with me (about creative nonfiction).
Which, by the way, is making me feel seriously under-read. Not only have I not read Montaigne (which Kevin has), or Diane Ackerman, Annie Dillard, John Krakauer, John McPhee, Tracy Kidder, Gay Talese, Lee Gutkind, or Brett Lott, who are apparently some of the leading writers in creating nonfiction, but I haven't read some of the fiction writers who these guys apparently all take for granted as being the leading lights of literature today. Argh.