February 9, 2021

The sickness was phlebitis manifesting first as nausea, which was a blessing, actually, as I managed to drug it away before it became any worse than that. 

Letters and emails from old friends, reminding me of manuscripts I sent to them decades ago and which, never published, eventually vanished from my consciousness. To be reminded of them now is strange and bittersweet, more sweet than bitter. Some of them I remember as a glimpse from a train into a flowering valley long ago. Others, not at all. I’ve thrown away more work than many writers have written. Friends from long ago apparently cherished these things. I stopped sharing them, because it was clear the friends of later times were not interested. 

Working hard on GB. How many writers have occasion to scold themselves on writing too much, therefore neglecting to send out the manuscripts. 

Have plans for reworking the garden come spring. I look at it, digging with my eyes.