When I was in Maine last week, I spent my mornings re-immersing myself in my book. I’ve been doing some work on the last two stories in the collection, slowly unearthing their threads and helping them find their shape.
It was a beautiful place to write: with spindling pine trees outside the window, and between them the bright blue spark of the cove, dotted in bouys. Inside, a long low bookshelf cluttered with well-worn books, and my own stack of afternoon reading. I miss waking up to that view, that stretch of time with my manuscript.