The cats are asleep. Neither succeeded in eating each other’s food; they ate what they were supposed to eat, and both of them are miraculously still alive. The orange tabby outside is eating Friskies from the can with zeal. He won’t come in, but he’ll look at you with his mouth slightly open, in the manner of tabbies, who always look adorably dumb.
Here is how the book is going. I have 15 “finished” stories, arranged in an order that is seamless, sharp like a cleanly broken glass, made of instinct. There are 3 others that need editing, maybe cannibalizing, but I’d also like to just be able to see what’s good in them, what the shiny parts are, what captures the essential weirdness of these people, what is the yes yes yes. There is some summoning to be done as well, I had a million ideas for new stories, new directions, it seemed endless and unwieldy, but that was months ago, at the edge of the end, when I was still waiting to go to Vermont.
Earlier, I made coffee and went to sit outside, where the orange cat and I looked at each other. He always has this look that is fifty percent longing and fifty percent fear, which I understand. Then I had to go inside, because it was too cold to be out there anymore.