Yesterday morning I referred to P.D. James and at the end of the day I read her obituary; she was dead at 94. I met her a while back. As you know, I have written a book about women's diaries ("Reading Between the Lines: The Diaries of Women"). I was still living up north (Muskoka) when her autobiography was published ("Time to be in Earnest"). She wrote it in the form of a diary, taking a calendar year, dating from her birth date, as I remember, and going through day by day, recalling what was memorable about each day: this day ten years ago, this day last year, and so on, thus filling in the important events in her life of historic or emotional significance. Nice format. I loved it and decided I would send her my book about diaries. Then I received a pitch for a trip on the QE2, one -way: a flight to London, and a sail back across the Atlantic to New York. P.D. James was the headliner, giving a talk, participating in a seminar, being available for autographs, etc. I had always wanted to go on the QE2 and this was opportune. I signed on. Her trip (about her 11th gig) was sponsored this time by Levenger's, an online catalogue for readers and writers that I had recently discovered. (Since then it has gone into retail stores, first in Daytona, Fla. then elsewhere, including one in Boston, where I finally visited once or twice when I went to see my daughter.)

Levenger's was very generous with its customers. I got a good deal on the passage; they gave me several hundred dollars' worth of salon treatments and sent me about $500 worth of goodies from their inventory, including a wallet, a passport holder and a couple of travel journals. Plus they had a cocktail party for the star, for the Levenger fans only, and, of course, sponsored her appearances. She also appeared on the upper deck every morning to walk, as I did. So I spoke to her there, after I had written her a note explaining my mission: to have her sign my copy of her autobiography and to give her my book on women's diaries. She did and I did, and I still have her book, of course.

She was a gracious lady, a cool head, and an excellent writer. And I'm a groupie. And I honour her life and her career.

After a good sleep (six hours!!) I feel I can do anything, so I have to be careful. I must choose wisely what to do with this day so that I do not squander it. Every day we have awesome choices, don't we? It's such a temptation to - as Stephen Leacock (1869-1944) put it - "ride off in all directions at once". I will harness that energy and enthusiasm and finish my new chapter. I hope.

But I have to bake some muffins for a few people. And I have started to send out my generic Xmas letter and must keep on before it's obsolete, so I have to finish those. (And then there's the wrapping and mailing to come - soon, before the price goes up). I should formulate a master plan of menus, the food I must use up before I leave for half a year, so I don't have to toss too much. Speaking of tossing, my sock drawer needs tossing, (I've already stirred it.) And what about my Paper Desk drawers, the ones with file folders and envelopes, extra Scotch tape, stick pens, and keys I don't recognize?

Uppermost, of course, is the new chapter, but I'm having trouble with my computer; it won't file what I've written. So I'm doing print-outs and I'll have to type them in later. What did we do before computers? Took more time, I guess. Did I write better? One editor told me several years ago that she could tell when I wrote longhand and when I wrote directly onto the - into? - the computer. That was when I broke my wrist. (It is a good book.)

I can think of several writers who write their first drafts by hand, One, a friend, writes his first draft with a fountain pen. He says he likes the flow of the ink, matching his thoughts (no blots?). He writes his second draft on a noisy old Underwood typewriter and as he bangs away he likes to think he is forging his material physically. The mystery writer P.D.James writes her books longhand and a secretary - the word is assistant now - types the copy into the material, prints it out and hands it over for revisions, and more typing. Barbara Cartland (1901-2000), according to reports, dictated her books as she reclined on a chaise longue eating chocolates. (Do you believe that?) I remember reading that Truman Capote (1924-1984), wrote lying down on his sofa with his typewriter on his chest. (Do you believe that?)

Henry James (1843-1916) dictated his copy later in his career after he developed a painful hand from his writing. I remember the name of his second amanuensis: Theodora Bosanquet (1898-1960) How can one forget a name like that? Louisa May Alcott (1832-1888) also began to dictate her work when she suffered terrible pains in her hands from pressing so hard as she made carbon copies. Well, as the saying goes, there's more than one way to skin a cat. Or write a book. Apocryphal stories abound, for example, that Peter Newman (b.1929) writes to the music of Stan Kenton. (Do you believe that?)

I'm told that this is a favourite FAQ now, from wannabes to writers: "Do you write longhand?"

There, now, I dozed off and the first fine flutter of creation is wafting away. Have a nice day.

Today I will write directly...into my little laptop, squeezing my thoughts to fit. Not really.