On waking

.
.
This morning the five scenes seemed like quite a lot. Perhaps it isn't a modest aim at all.

I woke thinking I should give thought to my "archives" — a lofty term for the boxes of papers in my basement. Might a library take them on? Now — in that between-novels stage — would be the time to at least inquire. Of course I expect rejection. One, I'm not a lit star, and two, I imagine that the days of libraries having much money for this type of thing might be over.

I must also finish preparing for my reading in Eganville tomorrow night. Yesterday I steamed my gown, and organized my props (wig, poke, bumroll). Today I will transfer the edits from my U.S. reading copy to my Canadian edition. I thought of simply changing the covers, but the Canadian is slightly larger. I might read from the U.S. edition, but without the cover. Or with the cover, and talk about the two designs. It's a wonder I get anything done at all with all this dithering.

I'll type and print out my talk onto cards: the ones I used throughout the US are now scribbled over. Too, I want to say something special. I've done this countless times by now, but in the three weeks since my last one in California, I feel I've never given a reading before. Too, a presentation before friends and neighbours is always more stressful than one before strangers.

It's also time to give thought, shape and title — that's the hardest part — to my talk for PEN in San Miguel de Allende next spring. I'm glad that they are so well-organized, that they are working on promotion so far in advance, but it's certainly far, far from my thoughts right now. I've set an end-of-month deadline for myself.