When I need to dig deeper, get grittier, I imagine that smoke-filled room, the overflowing ashtray, the Olivetti.
Last spring and summer, my voice—and my writing—deserted me.
My husband rolls his eyes, saying to our boy, 'Your mother is barely connected to this planet.'
Eight years, two books, and hundreds of op-ed pieces later, I no longer believe that authors must work an eight-hour day in order to be considered real writers.
It turns out that human beings—even writers—do need sleep. Authors are creative human beings, not machines.
