Incongruity

I think I'll get to my studio, make some more construction cone paintings, and listen to some writers read. I listened to some New Yorker fiction podcasts yesterday and the day before. The most incongruous was Joyce Carol Oates (who does not have any accent at all according to the Visiting Writer here, Sigrid Nunez) read Eudora Welty's short fiction piece "Where is the Voice Coming From" (also a good title). She attempted what must have been a southern accent, but it was really strange and all wrong. I've always read E. Welty and F. Oconnor as if my Memaw were reading the story to me, with that soft faint southern twang (that I wish I had more of).

It’s really intense without the distractions of what to eat, where to drive and if my phone just rang. All one has to do is experience the work of being an artist. It makes me tired, I require sleep, lots of it apparently. I went to sleep last night at 7:30 or 8. Woke up early, before the sun. Others here say the same, that this kind of work as an artist is intense. And it makes us hungry.