The sun hangs so low in the sky; it seems lower than previous autumns at this latitude. The earth is tilting, no one was warned.
The Little Friend, Donna Tartt: early in the book the family cat dies. Why that of all things. Only because my own cat is fourteen years old and mortal, I guess. Of course I kept my composure, that’s what I do nowadays. Technically I was at work, holding my Starbucks office hours that no one attends. Often I wonder how I will ever become a teacher when the least aspects of the job seem so draining. I could lead a section next semester, the department is short on staff and looking for people, I could use the money, but I’m too far behind in coursework because of my book.
The book has been out at sea for three weeks, maybe more. Radio silence, still waters. In a year something will float back, a sodden corner torn from a map of an unfamiliar continent. I know how I will write the next one. It will be shorter. But peace to do this work, the only possible work, without distractions: little enough to ask, far more than anyone ever gets.