Like right now. When you’re lying on a couch in Napa, an artists’ commune, at the end of a tiring night full of sweet wine and empty beer bottles. A day that included a drive north from the city. Making new friends and being pleasant with many more. Alcohol and weed and hours of talking make for imperfect writing conditions. But write out a few sentences until your eyes begin to roll back. The raindrops lull you off, or if they don’t then the frogs surely do. There will be more time to write tomorrow.