Day before my birthday.

I’ve signed up to knit items for a hospice organization here. Lap blankets, slippers, warm fuzzies you can wear. I’ve A.’s bag to finish and then I’ll start a blanket. A.’s bag will take longer than expected because, as I realized this afternoon, I knit the front and back different sizes. So, I get to knit up two more and have two bags. Who needs an orange and red small purse? I’ll think on that.

I’ve been reading Clarice Lispector. She was an amazing woman. Her books are complicated, so I’m staring with her chronicals. I cannot remember what they are truly called, but she wrote a weekly column for a newspaper in Brazil and I am reading an abridged collection of those. Some are funny, some poignant, some philosophical. All make me want to write when I grow up.

That I will do in November. It takes me about an hour to write 600 words. So, three or four hours a day is what it should take. I’m in the process of rethinking my plot and focal character. Could I realistically portray the inner workings of a 16-year-old girl? No. She’d be an irritating, precocious, 30-something girl. I’m working on it. I’ve got two months to figure it all out. I do still know that some one is going to leave this person’s life, but I’ve no idea who, when, or for what reason.

Maybe I’ll just write an autobiography thinly disguised as my first novel. And then, and then, and then. Wouldn’t that be thrilling? Though, it could serve to support my theory that the best novels are those that make the ordinary interesting. Or it could dash my theory to the tile floor and watch it shatter into so many fragmented story lines.

I’m having dinner tonight with L. She was my favorite person in high school, but we lost touch late our sophomore year (when she switched to open campus) and I have missed her all these years. We are both much changed, but our brief phone conversation to set up the meeting was fun. I very much look forward to seeing her.