This week I read stories

Winter’s here. I gave up on weeding when my fingers were fast frozen, and snapped under my feet. But I’d done enough. Enough to toss some worm castings, guano, and mulch, where the cover crop didn’t take. Before it was buried in wild onion, which i summarily dumped in the green waste.

Time to mulch the garden before February planting. And time to mulch myself in book paper, until I launch myself back at the novel. I’m on a tear myself, of absorbing literature the way soil does green matter — Grace Paley, Wodehouse, Tamar Adler, Nobokov — stuffing myself full so I’m fueled up and ready to flower.

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