I am reclining with the heating pad under my shoulder. It’s only 7 o’clock in the evening. With me is also Everyman, which I am finishing, and my iBook.
Jimmy walks in and says to me, “You know, a lot of writers wrote in bed.”
“Really?” I ask, which does not express doubt, but is just the way I say: “Tell me more.”
He says that Proust did. Capote did.
“Why?” I wonder.
He tells me that Proust was sick. Capote just preferred it.
Not for me, I say, or something like that. And, yet, here I am, writing in bed, and doubting that I will do it again.