Strange to say, I completely forgot to write you a note yesterday morning. Friday I was still up north, sleeping off the after-effects of a freezing-cold gig alongside the windy shores of Moosehead Lake. But I have no excuse for not writing yesterday . . . only the distractions of garden design. I have been sleeping terribly of late, waking up at 2 a.m. to fret over "what do I need to do next?" and "don't forget to order ____" and "how do I find a person to ____?" and so on and so on. None of this is anything I need to worry about at 2 a.m., but my brain is an idiot.

In any case, here I am today, ready to share boring stories about paint chips and the price of a truckload of compost. I have been laying newsprint weed barriers, and digging out saplings, and reaming out ugly old misplaced perennials and spreading bags of fresh soil, and laying drip hose for irrigation. I still can't touch half of the front yard because the sewer pipe guys have yet to rip it up. But once I get my truckload of compost delivered for the terraced bed, I can lay a few flagstone paths and begin some fall planting.

You won't be surprised to hear that I have done no writing, no copying out of Coriolanus or dreamy perusal of poems. My life revolves around editing, housework, gardenwork, and room painting is on the horizon. I read a bit of Wolf Hall every day; the reading light is never turned off, of course. But it is so good to have dirty hands again.