One evening during my freshman year of college, when I began to write “seriously,” I sat in a folding chair in my mother’s garage. Pecking away at my portable word processor all night long, I hammered out a solid H. P. Lovecraft pastiche short story. Likely it was called “The Eldritch Mystery of Unfathomable Cyclopean Monstrosities” or something of that nature. Depending on copious amounts of caffeine, nicotine, and youthful energy, I toiled for an uninterrupted twelve hours. At the end of my work, I collapsed in the center of the living room and slept until mid-afternoon.