There isn’t really any news here, just weather and moods, and in these mists the peas grow taller and the snails cling below the window of my shed. Sometimes in the morning I can see the streaks their bodies deposited on the pane during the night. In these surroundings I thought I would try to write a romance novel very quickly, sheerly for profit; the first and so far the only sentence is, Although I am a phlebotomist, I cannot believe that anything really exists.
Some excerpts from my non-romance novel, which is a pile on my desk beneath the snail-streaked window, will soon be the opening act of a new press, Black Sun Lit, whose editors are often up to something in Italy, then they are in New York, then back in Italy–this is probably how the rest of the world lives now, the world outside of Eureka, I don’t know. I should probably just give in, take courses in animal husbandry, learn to ride a horse. Then I will write romance novels. While galloping along the beach. Sunsets.