January 21, 2018

Slept without my overcoat over me last night. Still pain in the transition from lying to standing, but less. I will write this bout down as having lasted eight days. It was the worst of recent times. I think it came upon me like that because I misinterpreted signs, taking for general malaise what was, again, quite specific. Mother and Uncle Richard both had this, so perhaps it is the family curse and I should have been affording it more dignity.

A chose my happy frog on lace for her wall.

C came and took photographs for his book covers.

Q phoned and said the actors will quit if Chris is not replaced.

My printer gives up the ghost.

Carlos said, “I can’t wait to see the reviews of this book.” I say “Me, too,” but just as he’s adding, “It’s very weird.”

“You mean because it contains talking cats?”

“Oh, that’s only the start of it.”

One agent said the same thing as she declined it, “but I believe that your eccentricity is genuine . . .” I didn’t know what she meant and don’t know now. I don’t see how Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers is eccentric or weird in any particular way, either style or plot. But if it is and I don’t see it, then all my writing is as well, and past hope of correction.

Can’t quite go to church today. All the standing and sitting would be hell. Pretty much everything is hell.

AG and I watched rehearsal finally, and I didn’t see the same problems Quinn did, except that the tone is much, much too heavy, Hamlet rather than Midsummer. S must learn her lines. She’s at the same place with that as she was when I saw the scene more than a week ago.