Today I don't mind staying inside all day writing a paper; it's freezing out and the wind is still ferocious. Garbage is blowing around and it's gross.

I don't have an easy time writing papers. They stress me out, especially since I'm now writing them again after six years. I'm a little rusty.

I have such a vivid memory of writing my last undergrad paper. It was December '97 and I was living alone in a three-story dump-hole in Dover, right next to train tracks that made the whole house shake when a train went by. The upper floors were so cold as to be inhabitable, so I moved all my stuff into the living room and would work at the kitchen table. It was so depressing, going to sleep each night in the living room, and having to turn the shower on with pliers. I was also frantically trying to find people to take over the lease. This took precedent over the paper, so the paper ended up sucking (I think it was about women essayists like Anna Quindlen and Katha Pollit and Ellen Goodman). I remember finally finishing it and closing my laptop and not really feeling happy; just relief.