November 4, 2010

The best bet is that I was trying to save over a read-only file. The program actually warned me’‘ “You can’t do this”– but I assumed THAT was the glitch. Yesterday was the most terrible day in my writing life, at least that had to do with something mechanical. Carlyle’s manuscript in the fireplace; Hemingway’s valise lost on a train; Millay’s poems burned up in a hotel. Woke before 4 today to savor still more of the dead, exhausted feeling. It’s like losing an election, I guess, or a child. Not as bad as a child. But I mourn as though I lost one, as I have, a wonder of my own making now gone.

Cut the last of the roses and brought them into the house, for there are rumors of snow tonight. The yellow Paul Newman was just in bud after the dry shock of summer. The Mr. Lincolns are huge and fragrant. Pruned the holly and the dogwood and the oak, to encourage loft and discourage bushiness.

Sarah’s wedding rehearsal. No reason why it shouldn’t all go well tomorrow. EN was there, looking radiant, with her equally radiant Israeli fiancé.