Last night's talk went well, I think. I was fascinated by the other projects discussed: a historian's discovery of a secret identity hidden within story she'd been researching; a trove of Penobscot oral histories. But I also had an incident of my own. After I finished my talk, my chat start filling with excited messages from a local novelist who had gotten a bee in her bonnet about my project. As luck would have it, I'd recently read, and liked, her memoir, and so the two of us had a furtive fizzy confab about issues of structure which was quite thrilling. We've got a coffee date planned and we're eager to keep talking. Clearly this was a big moment, in which writers who sort of knew each other beforehand suddenly got very excited about each other's brain. So this morning I'm still feeling buzzy and thrilled.

Today will be relatively quiet, I hope. I finished an editing project yesterday; and with the archive talk behind me, I'd like to give a bit of attention to my own writing: ponder over revisions, transcribe poem blurts out of my notebook, think about submissions, maybe copy out some Dante. I'd like to work in the garden; maybe I'll buy some plants . . . Tom overslept this morning, so he's just flown out of the house, and I am now recovering from the flurry. The air is fog and drip; the grass is Kelly green; summer is poised like a tiger, just out of vision.