There’s this thing they say about the internet: nobody cares what you had for breakfast. They also say it’s the most important meal of the day. However it shakes out, breakfast is my favourite. Toast and eggs, chocolate chip pancakes, cold cereal, even when I don’t need to rush out the door to catch a bus.

I care what you had for breakfast. Because it’s worth it to take a moment in the morning, even if it’s only long enough to snap a photo, before the rest of the day comes at you.

Novelist time is reptile time; novelists tend to be ruminant and brooding, nursers of ancient grievances, second-guessers, Tuesday afternoon quarterbacks, retrospectators, endlessly, like slumping hitters, studying the film of their old whiffs. You find novelists going over and over the same ground in their novels—TNC was talking about Gatsby last week, Fitzgerald’s a prime example—configuring and reconfiguring the same little set of preoccupations, haunted by missed opportunities.

Kanye West "All of the Lights" (Portland Cello Project version)

Kanye West “All of the Lights” (Portland Cello Project version)