Happy New Year to all of you. It is a glittering morning in Harmony. The driveway may be a rink, but the crunchy icy grass makes jumping rope fun. I counted up to 35 before I lost my rhythm and wrapped the rope around my boot.

The red squirrels are awake and busy for the New Year. One has already invented a brand-new curse, which she practiced while dropping a pinecone on the poodle, who became flustered and thus found herself helplessly careening around the crunchy yard like a wind-up maniac.

James made the January 1 deadline for his first round of college applications and is celebrating by sleeping. Likewise, Paul is sleeping, for no particular celebratory reason. Tom is sitting on the couch in his bathrobe reading Helter Skelter. I am considering our incipient New Year's breakfast/lunch: fresh pineapple, bacon, and waffles or pancakes, waffles or pancakes, waffles or pancakes. Someone needs to decide for me.

Last night, on the final evening of 2011, I was invited to submit "provocative prose" to a new literary magazine. Do I write provocative prose? Anyway, I was pleased to think that somebody believes I do. Mostly I'm used to people telling me that I write evocative prose, which sounds prettier but also drearier.

I have a few provokingly embryonic ideas for essays; also a few provoking essays in existence that are presently floating hither and yon in the journal aether. I have my western Pennsylvania collection in progress; my CavanKerry collection forthcoming in 2014; my ill-starred rereading ms (the one that editors keep losing, misplacing, forgetting, and occasionally rejecting, etc.); a sheaf of uncollected, mixed-subject prose pieces; and my anthology of writings about poetry, due for release in 2013. I am fortunate and puzzled and grateful.

Yesterday James asked me if I'd ever made any New Year's resolutions. I told him that, as far as I can recall, any resolutions always involved (1) boys [keep my head, quit crying about them, stop being tempted by their charms, and so on, and so on] and (2) writing [learn to do it better, learn not to give up, learn to do it better, learn not to give up, learn to do it better, learn not to give up]. The boy resolutions, thank goodness, were a complete failure. But the writing resolutions: ah, they go on and on. And they've even sort of begun to kind of in a way come true. Although, of course, I have infinite room for improvement. . . . and why would I want to commit myself to a vocation that didn't have these endless stairs and passageways and stony plains and foggy forest paths and confusing streets?