Yesterday evening, when I got home after a full day of meetings, errands and lunch with a friend in Concord, I saw a star of morning glory blossoms at the top of the teepee we made for the vines to climb. I thought of getting up this morning and taking a photograph of the flowers, and basing a blog post on rejoicing in whatever is still putting out blossoms this far into the diminishing light of fall. But I woke up to dark skies, rain, fog tucked in behind the trees on the horizon, and little reason to go any further out the door than the porch.
Last night I picked up Cutting for Stone and started a new chapter. It’s a big book with a big story, and this chapter picked up a new point of view, with more back story from this character. I put the book down and closed my eyes and thought for a few minutes. Do I really want to keep working on the novel I started? The attention I’ve given to novel structures as I’ve read over the past several months is giving me more confidence I could. The stacks and stacks of short story drafts I repacked when David and I unloaded the storage pod in the driveway, transferring boxes to the barn shelves, were a reminder, from 30 years ago, that I once wrote fiction prolifically.
Or do I want to work on The Island Journal? Whenever I open the file on my computer and look at it I get encouraged by its story and language. And I already know I have lots of work to do to get ready for The Truth About Death to be published in April. But maybe I just want to order hiking socks online today, then start organizing the room David was using as his studio to be our bedroom again.
Right now, the rain just picked up, there are shots echoing from some nearby pond where a hunter is hoping to get a duck, and I won’t be going out to take any morning glory photos any time soon.