I wait for calm to prevail, for the ocean to stop churning and throwing refuse on the beach. For the dunes to stop shifting. Once upon a time, I thought wind was romantic and listened to the sound of it like music. But try listening to the same piece of music for one week solid. I can't escape the sound within these cabin walls. Well--walls may not be the right word to describe eighty cedar logs chinked with moss, newspaper, and, in many cases, nothing. But don't think I'm complaining. I just need to visit a friend with insulation.
Meanwhile, I continue the against-the-wind battle of the writer's life. The other day I received a kind rejection letter from Douglas & McIntyre. My collection of essays about India isn't very marketable, apparently. But the writing is "quite nice." I think that may be a compliment. Regardless, it is so rare to receive a personalized rejection letter that I felt downright joyful after reading it.
My Anne Patchett marathon stopped with Run. After Bel Canto and The Patron Saint of Liars, I don't know why I expected yet another masterpiece. I should have been content. Now I'm looking for a new author to take me away from this wind. Ideas anyone?
Thank you for reading.