The dawn air is thick with haze--Canadian wildfire smoke, I think, though I can't smell it. I've got a busy day ahead--a walk, and then editing, and then the violin and I are taking a jaunt to Bowdoin to rehearse with Gretchen and Gwynnie for their Monson performance. Then tonight I'm having dinner with a pair of San Francisco-based fiction writers I've never met before. But over the past couple years, we've gotten friendly about each others' work, and now they're in town for a reading tomorrow, so they reached out with a dinner invitation.

The entire week will vibrate at this level of busy. I've got a reading on Friday in Kittery, on Saturday in Winthrop. On Wednesday I'm talking with Teresa about Shelley. On Tuesday I'm going to Lori Ostlund's reading here in Portland. Usually I'd be going out to write on Thursday, but I'm not sure I'll be able to manage yet another night out this week.

And the conference is coming up fast. All of my big plans are set, but I've still got to print everything out, tweak details, figure out logistics, organize my reading, collect the books I'm bringing, reach out again to participants, and so on and so forth . . . Even though my responsibilities are more contained than they were at the Frost Place (no housecleaning or meal planning, thank goodness),  they are still myriad, and at this time of year I always feel as if my hair is flying off my head.

We've still got that one spot open . . . and it could be yours--