Even though I brought eight or nine books with me on this trip, I did not bring the right ones. It’s impossible, really, to predict what I will need in the way of books. I should have brought Writing Down the Bones because it helps me to get back on track when I manage to lose my way in this writing world. The good news is that I have some parts of it woven into the labyrinth that is my brain.

I’m thinking of the chapter in which Natalie (Sure, it’s familiar, but she feels like a friend and co-conspirator. Not like, say, Professor Eco, who is well beyond my petty struggles, busy wrestling with concepts I can’t even begin to contemplate.) repeats, “Just write.” She lists a great many things that can and do go wrong, from cat piss to severe poverty and then brings back the essential: when it is time to write, write.

So. I am not going to be distracted by the voicemail I got from Syd about how he needs his essay out of his computer at my house. I can’t fix it. I’m not there. I sent him a text message to tell him that. I tried to call Rick to figure out something. His phone isn’t working. I emailed both of them suggesting that Rick take Syd over to my house to pick up the laptop or mail the file. I am trying not to panic. Not my homework. Not my essay.

I am not going to be sucked in by sleepiness and the choice of not one but two comfy beds, one on either side of me as I type at this pseudo-colonial desk. I will not succumb to the temptation of the hot tub lurking downstairs, at least in part because I went in last night and it wasn’t as hot as I could have wished.

However, once I finish this typing, I am going to take advantage of my Luddite tendencies. I will pick up my spiral notebook. I will walk out onto the balcony, where there are chairs in the sun. I will push the pen forward across the paper out there rather than in here. I love sun.