167


It’s not right, sitting at the outdoor pool, splashing around in 90-degree weather– in MAY. It’s too early in the year to deal with mounds and mounds of fireant hills, pockets of wasps’ nests, hoards of bumblebees the size of grapefruit— when it’s not yet officially summer. Summer has always been my respite– the vacation I can have without leaving the comfort of my home. I’m still hopeful that this summer won’t be as bad as last summer, but such hot temps so early on is not following the pattern for the more moderate summers we had our first two years in Atlanta. For two years in a row now, my tulips just didn’t show up. It’s as if they’re saying, “Why even bother? It’s not like you guys even have a spring!”

*  *  *  *  *  *

The amount of reading I’ve been doing since working on this novel has taken a sharp nosedive. I used to read one or two books a week. Now I can hardly keep up with my magazines. My New Yorkers are piling up. I tried to read some of Yoga Journal yesterday afternoon but got distracted. Zadie Smith’s book review in Harper’s looked interesting, but I fell asleep while reading it. Nothing has ever kept me from being a voracious reader– full time working, babies waking up all night long, short term writing projects, illnesses—nothing. I’ve always read, and I’ve always read a lot. But this time around, it’s like I can only concentrate on this one thing– writing a book. I can’t seem to read much at all.

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