Last night D. spent an inexplicable amount of energy trying to convince me that the Internet is not a destructive habit, but my way of feeding my creative self. I said, no, it’s not. She argued: lots of writers and artists need to do other things– garden, clean their kitchens– isn’t that where you get your story ideas? I said: no, it isn’t. She said: how do you know it isn’t? I think about my long days, seven in the morning until one or two the following morning, the hours spent avoiding my work, my family, locked in the grip of a problem that won’t be solved, the hours I have added up, trying to imagine how much time I have lost, trying to figure out why I haven’t produced any stories. I say: hundreds of hours. She says, I’m just playing Devil’s advocate. I say, I don’t need a Devil. I need to write.