The daily act of writing remains as demanding and maddening as it was before, and the pleasure you get from writing – rare but profound – remains at the true heart of the enterprise. On their best days, writers all over the world are winning Pulitzers, all alone in their studios, with no one watching.
—Jeffrey Eugenides (on winning the Pulitzer Prize)
I don’t know where the weekend went. I do know tar pits were involved, tiny dogs with whiskery faces, no trips to the toy store, dashes of revision, a crazy suspension of gigantic boulder, not having to turn on the A/C until the afternoon instead of 8a.m., a sociable labradoodle on Montana Ave., the Batcave, giant sloths and robotic mammoths, a new front porch light, Dover sole drizzled in balsamic glaze and honey and sprinkled generously in macadamia nuts and then baked, the movie Shame (still showering it off my brain), the movie We Bought A Zoo (ditched it for bed), continuing Big Sur withdrawals and family, family, family. Doesn’t Jeffrey Eugenides resemble Shakespeare? Or is it Francis Bacon? Definitely not the Earl of Oxford. No, I won’t go there. I promise…
May your holiday Monday be filled with cookouts and fun and, most especially, naps. And hopefully a Pulitzer moment (or several) of your own.