I finished the Malcolm X essay, got myself caught up on the editing project, fought the ant invasion in my house, and now am girding my loins for a weekend of Beloit Poetry Journal board meetings. Tonight it is forecast to be 8 degrees, which, at the end of March, is not fair. Tonight I also have to make brownies for a baseball-benefit dinner, but who wants to benefit baseball when it's 8 degrees? Blah.

By the way, I took Ruth's advice and read some Barbara Pym at the science fair. The novel opened with a great deal of comfortable chat about knitting and boiled chicken, all of which could be easily interrupted, and was.

Someday I will get back to writing this letter, and maybe that day will be tomorrow. If not, don't hold it against me.