I’ve been suffering from writer’s block, banal of an excuse as that is. With my final workshop submission due next Tuesday, this first year of the MFA program is already winding to a close. But I’ve been biting my proverbial nails trying to get this piece ready. Last Sunday, I steeled myself to remain indoors to attend to household chores and get a significant chunk of writing done. I did laundry, washed dishes, cleaned my apartment, all that good stuff… My neighbors, who just so happen to have a deck by my window, opted to host an afternoon gathering on this day of nice weather. So there they were within earshot, chattering away, enjoying good food, drink, and company while I hovered indoors staring blankly at my computer screen. Foiled again. I ended up steam ironing some clothes to jazz (feeling very much like a Murakami character) and going to sleep early.

My boss has been sick for three days in a row, out with the flu. With coworkers sneezing all around the office and the endless amount of time I spend commuting between boroughs, my health was beginning to feel a bit precarious, too. My throat has felt dry, my nose stuffy. To top it all off, I’ve been so busy/anxious/distracted that I haven’t even been able to cook. I bought a large bag of spinach and took to making turkey and provolone sandwiches, dispiritedly cramming in a handful of leaves each day. But spinach, alas, always wilts faster than I can eat it. I hoped I wasn’t giving myself food poisoning.

Today started off beautifully, with a gorgeous sun and balmy temperatures in the morning on my way to work. Never mind the fact I lolled listlessly at my desk, barely able to breathe. After work, I headed off to Queens for the third day in a row to attend a reading. When I got out of the subway at Forest Hills, I was almost shocked at how cold it had become — a dismal cloud cover had swooped in and smothered springtime with its gusty intimations of February. I felt morose.

The reading was really lovely, though. Marie Howe, Poet Laureate of New York State, read a selection of her works and engaged the audience with her thoughts on writing, rewriting, living, breathing. “Know your nature,” she said. “And respect it.” This was a valuable, and succinct, takeaway.

I was finishing a cigarette when the Q64 bus pulled up, so I took a few hurried last drags before stepping on. The bus driver gave me a strange look and said something, I thought, about the internet. “What?” He repeated himself two more times. I finally understood that he was scolding me. I should finish my cigarette at least five minutes before getting on the bus, apparently. So the scent of smoke doesn’t impinge upon other passengers. Thanks, pal.

Feeling vexed, tired, cold, I tried to keep calm and focus on the tasks ahead. On the subway home, I began reading Varieties of Disturbance by Lydia Davis, de facto queen of literary OCD (with her all-around sharp and occasionally hilarious insight). Then, walking through McGolrick Park to my apartment, I saw — not for the first time today — lights flashing, flickering on the leaves of trees, on the buildings around me, something splendorous and joyful about all, despite the weather’s gloom.

I knew what I had to do. As soon as I got home, I cleaned out the humidifier that’s been sitting emptied on my desk for several weeks. That’ll take care of the terrible nasal dryness. I washed the handful of dishes in the sink. I chopped and sautéed garlic and onion. I put on some coffee. I boiled noodles. I scrambled eggs, threw in some mushrooms, tomatoes. I discarded all the wilted leaves and used the rest of that whole damn bag of spinach.

Now I’m ready to write.