Well, hello again. A week has passed. And what a week it’s been.

Last Monday’s post resulted in the formation of an entire organization: The Outer Alliance. Suffice it to say, that’s kept me quite busy. Coupled with a huge freelance (entirely non-creative) project, my brain’s a little on the fried side. Tripled with that, my husband and child and I accidentally took a two hour tour yesterday; our “little hike” ended up being an up-the-side-of-the-mountain-with-three-year-old-on-back kind of thing. My body is mad at me, I think…

I worked on a piece that’s owed, which is an amusing concept to me. A short story. I have a very odd relationship with short stories, mostly because my brain tends to think in novels, and not having room to yammer unsettles me. I’m rewriting this one blindly (this is the trend of late, I see) and so far it’s working out alright. The weekend haul was 2700 words, about 3/5 of the way through. That sounds like an arbitrary fraction, but I assure you only the most advanced mathematical computations were used…

My grandmother was also here last week, and I learned a few amazing things about her. First, when she worked at Mt. Holyoke College, she had an office next to W.H. Auden; she used to hear him reciting his compositions through the wall. Singing them, in fact. Also, she had a very amusing story to tell about a very drunk Dylan Thomas. But I suppose most tales about the man are drunk Dylan Thomas stories.

Time is the greatest issue. Not enough of it. Tomorrow, my son will be three… devouring time, and all that.

No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted. – W. H. Auden

Don’t be too harsh to these poems until they’re typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction. – Dylan Thomas

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