Once upon a time—sometime probably after high school but long before the end of college—a fellow writing friend reminded me never to write while tired. Freshman year of college, I had this whole system of going out for a walk around eleven, smoking a black and mild, coming home and writing for a good hour or two. I don’t even remember what I was writing, just taking my first class of the morning seriously enough I always went to it with five hours of sleep. It was fine. I got As in it. But now when I look at a blank white screen and a flashing cursor, I don’t think about being tired as much as I think about the mental effort of writing. Hence bad movies watched late night—or at least painfully mediocre ones—it’s kind of a relief. Sure, I’d like to sit around and do nothing but watch Bergman and analyze V, but I haven’t been able to find anyone to pay me for it, which—while a shame—is kind of expected.