My kids are in the house. I’ve been gardening in my vegetable garden. I have absolutely zero obligations or calls to return. Now I’m fixing dinner with music playing and having a glass of wine.

Perfection is a second-rate idea. I would guess, however, that perfected happiness would be joy, the most intricate and mercurial of all sensations. The moment one recognizes joy, it flees. I’m not sure where Proust is going with this line of questioning, and I don’t want to be evasive, so I will say my idea of perfect happiness is the end of economics; we grow like flowers and fly like birds; the lion lays down with the lamb—a ridiculous idea.

Any day spent laughing with friends or family.

Listening to my sons play a piano-and-sax duet.

I would so much like to have a daily writing schedule. If I had one, I'd probably start about 9.30, write for 2 hours, have lunch, write another 2, then goof off. As it is, I goof off, then panic and write in the evenings. Do not follow my example.

Long, lingering dementia, followed by death from choking on a fishbone.

As for motivation, I'd say it's a combo of 50s Puritan work ethic and finish-it-itis -- I hate not finishing things.

In 1948 when the brakes failed on our car. About to get on a plane to New York on 9/11. Choking on a fishbone.

Of a painless disease, with a month’s warning, on a spring day, with some good news in hand.

Begrudging mean-spiritedness.