...and with the first snow came the first few pages of the new book. Both settled in early this morning. The snow's melting, but the pages seem to be sticking around. As usual, I'm sure they're perfectly awful. But they're a start. Book 4 is up and running, my friends--let's hope it doesn't take off without me. (Meanwhile, I'm secretly tinkering with the novel, but don't hold your breath on that. I'm thinking it's going to take me about four years. I have to get good enough to write it.)

It's been a woolly couple of weeks since I wrote. A long trip to New York to see the Lovely Lora and work out ideas on the book with my agent--a wonderful escapade, especially since I realized the day after I got there (and slept in till the radical hour of 8) that I hadn't taken a day off in 28 days. This, I might point out, is incredibly stupid. I have been cured of such nonsense, and will be taking another day off here soon. Then a whirlwind trip to Florida for a lecture, then back, and now--my God, I think I'm actually in town for two months before winter lectures start. Ha! Take that, Northwest Airlines, which lost my luggage three (3) times in the past two months. (Also--not Northwest's fault--I broke my toe. So uncool.) But--back in Mpls--and glad to be. Winter is about to settle in, and I can't wait. I'm a little out of sorts because usually I spend November and December on poetry; this year I'm going to be working on the new book proposal instead, but am hoping to scribble out at least a few poems here and there. I've got two new ones underway I'm tinkering with, so that at least keeps the poetry section of my brain occupied. The reporter section of my brain just wrapped up edits on an article on painter Megan Rye--can be found tomorrow on www.mnartist.org--and I'm looking forward to reviewing The Necessity of Theater: The Art of Watching and Being Watched (Paul Woodruff) in a couple of weeks. All of this leaves the rest of my brain free to cram the research I'm cramming into it in preparation for the proposal. I love it when the part of the writing process where you're screaming what the hell am I doing??? ends and the part where you shut up and start writing begins. It is an enormous relief to know you do, in fact, have a more or less coherent idea in your head.

Just finished the Roxana Robinson biography of Georgia O'Keeffe--quite well done, I thought; I would have liked a little more analysis of her work itself, but reading about the woman's life was wonderful. I love this far-too-often-quoted O'Keeffe quote: "I'm frightened all the time. But I never let it stop me. Never!" Wise words to live by. And continuing with the Elizabeth Bishop fixation, I'm reading Brett C. Miller's Elizabeth Bishop: Life and the Memory of It, which I like a great deal--it's got a wonderful lot of close readings of the poems, which makes the whole thing much richer. Both these women were itinerant creatures whose work depended heavily on the place they were in; they have me thinking much about travel, restlessness, and the idea of home.

I am one of those people who loves the holidays--November 1, I turn on the winter music; day after Thanksgiving, the Christmas music starts, and stays on until even I can't stand it anymore. I get my Christmas tree about ten minutes after Thanksgiving, too, and decorate the damn thing within an inch of its life, then dread the un-decorating till the tree self-immolates sometime in January and I'm forced to pack the ornaments back up. But--like I said--it's only just the first snow, and I'm tapping my foot for more. It would be good if I could find my winter jacket, too, before it blizzards while I'm traipsing around in a t-shirt. I think it's around here somewhere.

And with that, a little wintry Robert Frost...

Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Happy winter, everyone....

peace,
m