Pardon those two recent but terse post-snippets, but I was both too overwhelmed and too tired to do anything other than write a couple of declarative sentences. And before I revert to the subject, I'm going to say thank you thank you thank you to my friends Weslea and Curtis, who keep offering us the use of this beautiful cottage in West Tremont. Tom says he's going to give me more pictures of the cottage to post here so that you can see why you, too, won't be able to resist visiting it someday. Weslea is a poet, Curtis is a photographer, they live by the sea, and they own a James Brown doll that sings "I Feel Good." What more can I say?

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.