I thought, I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to write. I don’t have to read. I don’t have to feel guilty if I’m not being productive.

So I sat in the corner of the couch and looked out the plate-glass window. The trees were black. The sky was gray, the clouds a slightly darker gray. Birds flew in and out of the trees. Steam rose from the neighbors’ pipe. After a while, the clouds turned white and the sky turned blue. It got brighter. I kept waiting for the sun to appear above the rooftops. I was done sitting. I was done waiting. I was ready to move. Stopping would be copping out. But staying to “finish the job” would be no better. Up on the third floor, I thought, I could definitely see the sun. But was that the idea?

There is no canned wisdom.