I awake in the morning and choose

To postpone a look at the news.

I had a good sleep

And the anger will keep

Until later, no need for previews.

This old man normally awakens two or three times in the night since I married a woman who urges me to drink more water, otherwise I’d drink less than a tree toad, but it’s no problem since I can awaken, do my business, return to the marital bed, and doze off in seconds. This is not due to a guiltless conscience, but compartmentalization: I keep guilt in a separate drawer, with the frying pans. Last night, however, was one of those rare uninterrupted nights of sleep like the ones I had when I was in my 20s and 30s, a child, and I now sit down and brew my coffee, dazed at the blessedness of sleep, how peaceful the brain is. Today is a day of work on the novel, filling in some shallow places, adding jokes, padding it a little — some parts of it need to slow down. Monday I’ll send it to my editor. Note, I say “my” editor. I’ve not met him yet but this is a personal relationship. I started out with Roger Angell at The New Yorker who was the kindest man ever, all rejections were made with deep regret, acceptances were like Pulitzer Prizes. I had Bill Whitworth at The Atlantic who was a newspaperman at heart so he was fond of fact, resistant to rhetoric. I had the great Kathryn Court at Viking who, for Lake Wobegon Days in 1984, came out and lived with my girlfriend and me in St. Paul and edited the book on our dining room table. You don’t find an editor like her today. Some editors work from home but not from your home.

This novel has come so easily and quickly that I’m going to miss writing it. It came quickly because we were quarantined and I had no interruption, Jenny and Maia were self-sufficient. And yesterday I started to think about writing another book after I’m done with the memoir which is almost done. It’s the greatest pleasure to have work ahead, waiting. Other people do the jobs I was suited to do, drive bus, wash dishes, punch tickets, and somehow I lucked into a literary career. Every time a word eludes me and won’t drop, I imagine dementia is ahead, but it hasn’t happened yet. So now, to work. The Tangerine Spleen is on his own today, I can’t be bothered. Enjoy the day.

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