T forgot to set his alarm so we are late this morning, and discombobulated. Outside, a fat waning crescent is parked over the neighbors' chimney. Inside, I am trying to sort out what kind of day I need to have. Yesterday's teaching plan was a bust: only one kid showed up for class, so zooming with him all day made no sense. Instead, I ended up back with the giant editing project, and did make some progress there, which takes some pressure off today. I'll still spend time at my desk, but I also need to prep for Chicago and do some house stuff, and I've got a meeting in the afternoon, maybe two.

But, hurray, Chicago! I am so, so looking forward to this weekend with my kid, in his new place, with his new cats and new partner. We will eat magnificent local Mexican food, and we will walk around the city for hours, and we will watch silly things on TV, and on Sunday we will go to the ballet . . . it will all be beautiful.

Today, however: deleting sentences, cleaning toilets, arguing with Donne. At least I can offer you this, from George Saunders:

There is a big moment for any artist . . . when we have to decide whether to accept a work of art that we have to admit we weren’t in control of as we made it and of which we’re not entirely sure we approve. It is less, less than we wanted it to be, and yet it’s more, too—it’s small and a bit pathetic, judged against the work of the great masters, but there it is, all ours.

What we have to do at that point, I think, is go over, sheepishly but boldly, and stand on our shit-hill, and hope it will grow.

And—to belabor this already questionable metaphor—what will make that shit-hill grow is our commitment to it, the extent to which we say, “Well, yes, it is a shit-hill, but it’s my shit-hill, so let me assume that if I continue to work in this mode that is mine, this hill will eventually stop being made of shit, and will grow, and from it, I will eventually be able to see (and encompass in my work) the whole world.