Reading from the bottom up for the most part, at this point. In some spots, the draft needs a word or two as a transition between two scenes. At others crucial information got lost somewhere between the intention and the execution. Given the times and my overall mood these days, I don’t expect the final version of this story to elicit a surge of overwhelming delight. If, once the writing’s done, there’s still a will to fail better next time as Beckett would have said, this will be good enough for me.

Back in town, in my cramped kitchen. The upstairs neighbor clomps up and down the stairs and yells out to her upstairs neighbors while she’s at it. The other neighbor parks next to my living room window and hollers in raspy Spanish at his kids inching toward the car for the dreaded drive to school. (The  boys peered into my open window one day and asked me why, why do I keep so many books, why? Reading sucks, the three of them told me – including the youngest who hasn’t started school yet.)

Since last night, I’m much taken by the words of kind-hearted sirens, recorded in Françoise Morvan’s La douce vie des fées des eaux. “Je m’en vais et vous ne me verrez plus jamais. Chance et bonheur à vous, et moi de même.”  (I am leaving and you will never see me again. Luck and happiness to you, and the same for me.)