How many times have I taken that picture, sitting in exactly that place. It was raining out when I captured the scene again yesterday, our not-yet-dismantled table top Christmas tree still in front of me. This is my life, sitting here beside the big window, writing people's lives. I'm not complaining. I am grateful to have found my way to such work, and that it continues to sustain me. I am here again today, in the same spot beside the window, landscapers on the lawn below me digging holes along a line of white painted X's on the ground. I suppose the holes will soon receive plantings of some sort, and with the tree in front of my window recently cut down, I will have a full view of this new evolution of the gardens where I live. There are still scaffolds everywhere, as the city inspectors have not yet signed off on the recent repaving of the pathways and re-pointing of the brick facades, but the refurbishing of the sorely neglected grounds at least seems to have begun. I have just finished Chapter 13 in the memoir I am writing for my subject, and am about to begin the next chapter, which I believe to be the most pivotal one in the narrative. Perhaps I should pause here, at fifty-five-thousand words, on my way to the eighty-five-thousand asked for by contract, and allow the upcoming action to build more fully into view. Sometimes I think writing might be as straightforward as entering an internally visualized reality and looking around at what is happening, noticing all the human and physical details, gesture, emotion, atmosphere, place, and then looking again and noticing more, and faithfully setting it all down.