For the first time in my life since I was six, I wasn't reading anymore - all because of my bedroom relationship with an I-Touch. There was self-delusion (one more game of Scramble and then I'll pick up that novel), justification (I've had a hard day and deserve to relax and surf the Huffington Post articles.), rationalization (I have to see what's new on Media Bistro. It's important for my writing.) I was doing better and had even deleted all the games, but then one night I checked my e-mail just one more time and there was that acceptance from North American Review. It set my recovery way back.
Two weeks ago I willed myself into a cold turkey docking of the temptation every night in its charger in the kitchen. For awhile I woke up in the dark lonely and lost, but now I've made new friends to play with in bed. Like Carol Anshaw's brilliant novel Carry the One. Or Jeanette Winterson's memoir Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? Really, it's a party every night.
And last night I woke up at three, pulled the always-waiting, long-patient yellow pad over, perched it on a pillow on my lap, and scribbled down what might be the first scene of a novel. This was so much more than a just a good time. It's too soon to say, but there might be a relationship developing.