In the meantime, while I lay on my back and stared out the window at the snowy cove and drank too much wine and did no writing whatsoever, people have been reading my books. I don't know what to think, except that I feel like I had nothing to do with it . . . which is specious, I know, since after all I did write them. But books are rather like children: once they leave the nest, strange things happen, and I only hope the cops won't have to get involved.
Dinner tonight: Meatloaf. Spoon bread. Broccoli and carrot and garlic salad. Cheap Hood-brand "Fenway Fudge" ice cream.