I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it.
—William Faulkner

This morning, after breakfast, I went to visit the grave of Marian and Edward MacDowell. I brought with me a notecard in which I'd written a short letter, expressing my gratitude, and an orange, as an offering. And my, didn't the orange glow, in the snow...

I'm embarking on something big. I hope I can pull it off. The first piece of the puzzle I wrote today, with more on the way in the coming weeks.

The reading's tonight. I hope I read well and that it is interesting. If not, at least there is wine.

I feel so very raw here. Raw and uncooked.