Red Sox in the championship series?! How is this even happening? By midsummer this team seemed to be destined for mediocrity; they barely squeaked into the Wild Card game, and now what the heck? Hitters actually hitting? Fielders actually fielding? Pitching staff not blowing games? Pardon the outburst, but I'm flummoxed (also delighted) . . . and go, Chicago, so we don't have to play those nasty Astros next.

Okay, now that's out of my system and I can return to my regularly scheduled humdrum life. "So much editing. The end." Still, it looks like I may be taking a trip up north to Monson next week to lead a day-long high school writing workshop, so that will be a change. And I do need to start planning my Homer class. I've got a spate of Studio Session weekends coming up, amid all of this editing and manuscript reading, and somehow I've got to find time to juggle everything.

Teresa and I are now three-quarters of the way done with the Iliad, and we had a great conversation about it yesterday afternoon. Now I'm getting ready to start a Nancy Drew project with another friend, which I'm really looking forward to. For dinner I made noodle bowls with tofu, kale, marinated egg, radishes, peppers, onions, cilantro, and chicken broth--fruits of the freezer and the autumn garden. I giggle-texted with Paul and played cards with Tom, and wondered about James's impending strike. I read a few chapters of Robertson Davies's The Cunning Man, and then I dreamed an episode of some sort of period-drama miniseries, possible 1930s-era, with golden Masterpiece Theatre-style nostalgia lighting and teasers about impending love and tragedy.