From the diary: “March 9, 1985
“Read a couple stories from Isaac Asimov’s SF Humor Anthology Laughing Space; neither story was funny. The one he wrote about the Goose That Lays the Golden Eggs was positively boring.”
It wasn’t only Isaac Asimov I was dissatisfied with. I began confiding in my diary again, using it as a way to think. “This day has been such a waste,” I continued. “I’m sick of lying in all morning. … I’m letting the newspapers pile up again. And I’ve got tons of library books to read. What am I doing to myself? It’s like I’m trying to deny being human. Every time (nearly) I build up my confidence for something I easily talk myself out of it. … I’m trying hard to hold onto my writing because that seems to be the only light in the tunnel. … I’m feeling lonely. The rain splattering the roof, the cat curled up on newspapers by the TV. He bores me. He’s like 1/4 of a person. Just enough to be there – not enough to be fulfilling.”
I was living with my mother. This day she was gone visiting friends. But she was after me to get a job – and I would have loved to have landed one. Often unable to get out of bed until midafternoon, awake until 2 a.m. or later (occasionally sleepless all night), getting headaches, eating only to shut down the hunger, isolated and feeling lost, man, I was Depressed.