December 28, 2017

Strangely social morning at the High Five. Met the guy–Ryan–whom I’ve watched reading complicated books the last several months. He wants to be a writer and wants to know if I have any advice. He doesn’t know me, but sees me writing all the time. “Do you like to write?” he asks. I don’t have an uncomplicated answer.  What he saw me writing today was a new scene for the play I began in Omaha, which, pulled from the mothballs, moves forward on greased wheels. I’m getting less done in my vacation time than I think I ought. I blame the remarkable cold for my listlessness. Cities of the north are at thirty below zero. Brilliant winter light deceives us into stepping outside.