I started the next novel. 227 words. That’s not much. But it’s a starting point, and I’m stopping there–mid-sentence–so that I will pick it up tomorrow.
My reading for the day isn’t done yet–that comes next, I think, as soon as I make some cocoa. Or some other seasonally inappropriate beverage. I did read a few pages while printing out things today, and I’m very much looking forward to getting back to The Air We Breathe.
I feel like I should have something interesting and pithy to say, but I will just say, instead, that I am very glad to have found my missing notebook in the empty plastic bag that my cap and gown were housed in. I was certain I’d left it on campus somewhere, but there it was, while I was cleaning the bedroom today: black and spiral bound, 1/3 full of things that someone might find interesting but only if that someone were someone like me (enamored of trivia and things that aren’t meant for us to see). I also found the pen that was with it, a black Bic stickpen, possibly the cheapest kind you can buy, and the kind that I love to absolute pieces. I lose the caps for them, and then they roll off every surface in my house, because nothing here is level.