The last day of summer gone already. Spent the month obsessing as productively as possible about A Lamentation of Swans. A million questions, all answers invisible in the great white sea. I’m eager to return to writing the novel but so much stuff seethes through my brain about the story I can’t grasp it, not even a piece.
It’s going to be a hot September, looks like, not unusual when summer comes reluctantly and leaves with a hasty flourish of high temperatures, like the final stamp of feet in a slow Spanish dance.