Clearly now

I'm under pressure with two deadlines over here, an edit of a manuscript and the finish of a proposal, for which I still have to craft a sample chapter. So I may be scarce for a while, maybe just posting pictures. I should note, however, that I turned in my book to the publisher this week. The editor hasn't read it yet, she has other manuscripts queued up, but my subject was happy with how her story turned out and her agent was happy, and my agent, after spending yesterday on her couch reading, sent me the most wonderful note last night. I don't want to blow by these milestones. They matter. The editor is the one to please, of course, but I'm still relieved that two very tough readers did not think the book sucked.

Here's another rediscovered photo, this one of my parents with my daughter the month after she was born. My girl is in L.A. right now, visiting college friends and lifer friends. Yesterday her social media was full of boomerangs of the Santa Monica Pier, the waves doing a cha cha on the shore, the pilings under the boardwalk, riding a bicycle along a concrete path, daredevils in the skate park. This is the trip she abandoned at the airport gate last Labor Day weekend, when I called to tell her that her dad would be having surgery the following day. I find I still watch my husband closely, trying to make sure no symptoms are missed, the fantasy of complete control. He's been casting his mind back lately, realizing that his heart had been going bad for years, and he ignored all the signs. Everybody in New York is tired, he used to say. He sees more clearly now.

All is well.