I was going to blog today about this David Brooks piece and the article he's writing about, but then something odd happened. I've been lazy about working on my paper for Kalamazoo, so I decided to start writing it...
... then I found an odd file on my drive. I opened it, and found that my paper is 90% written. Now, it's my writing (or at least the writing of someone really, really good at replicating my style and reading my inner thoughts), but I have no recollection of writing it. None whatsoever.
Uh oh. This is a sign. Either the shoemaker's elves have come to my house and are doing my work for me in the night, or I'm writing too much. So, I'm going to take a break from writing today.
Of course, it occurs to me that I've just written a post about not writing. I'm a sick, sick man.
So, here's some non-writing: For some reason, people have been blogging about Loreena McKennitt a lot over the last couple of days, and Lady of Shalott has been running through my mind. Perhaps this will cure me.