I’ll keep trying. I’m sinking though….

A lot of it has gone now.

Well, I’ll tell you and then be done with it.

Remember I was going to do some research into the names of some people quoted in an essay I was intending to write about? Maybe you don’t but I do. I found them online and wrote about them with my reactions and LOST my copy. Aargh!

And now I can’t find the essay that triggered my search. I’ve also lost my personal phone book. I think I’m losing stuff in the sea of files I am drowning in. I may not find anything again until I pack it all to go to the university (Manitoba). Does anyone remember that the first shipment I sent them included a dead mouse and three acorns? They remembered and told me. Thst’s how I know.

So I’ll go on with what I remember and my reactions. I mean, I did have something to say. That’s what blogs are for: to give meaning to my life, however simple and banal and forgettable it may be—is.

I‘m getting there.

The essay was about writers’ files, i.e. the thoughts and memos and notes and the original draft and then the final copy. The people who were quoted told the writer what happened to their files and how they felt about them. You can understand why I was interested. I keep finding bits of mself in notes and comments and first drafts and even stuff that ends on the cuttting room floor, when one is asked to cut a page or a paragraph, Heaven forbid to re-write. I remember once I was told by my editor to rewrite the entire last chapter of a book. It was HARD to do, but critics’ reviews called it the best chapter of the book, so my editor was right. That’ s what editors are for. Sometimes when you are so intent on the garden, you neglect to see the weeds still cluttering it. Most of my writing is a compost heap created to help other, better writers create. I‘m old enough to see that now.

All this is relevant to my current situation as I gather my last files for the archives. I have to be the editor. I’s not easy.

I am comforted by the fact that I don’t have to throw out old copy. I can keep it to re-read. When I leave, my family (my Literary Executor) can just throw the papers in a dumpster.

Very tidy.

I know, I know, it’s July 2, but the day??? I often have to ask Siri the date and/or time. (easier to ask her the time than look for a clock. My last Fitbit broke down about the same time that The Covid Lockdown began so I rely on other things to tell me the time.

I started being confused on Friday. I thought it was Saturday and I didn’t realize until after I had begun cooking dinner and wondering why Matt was late for our swim. I missed the swim and I cooked too much food and I had to eat some and now I have lots of leftovers to deal with. The real Saturday was better—July First, Canada Day—warm and pleasant and relaxed. Matt came for lunch, too, and we had a picnic on the balcony. (My favorite—avocado toast!). It began to rain (thunderstorms predicted) while we were in the outdoor pool so we came inside to the spa, but we always do that because we exercise in that pool, too.

And now this morning is the second of July and it’s Sunday and Matt is coming for lunch and a swim and dinner, and he will make the zoodles for dinner (I’m doing shrimp). He’s good at zoodles, very patient, and with the veggies for stir-fry, too. Nice for me.

I thought maybe the groceries were coming this morning, but I remembered it’s Sunday not Monday, so I went back to bed at 8:30 for half an hour. Lazier and lazier. I chastise myself but I forigve me.

So today will be a nice day.

The other half of my blog of several days ago is coming.

I’ll worry tomorrow..