Mary is falling in love
with a scoundrel. Mary Wollstonecraft, that is. And I am avoiding writing about it. Well, avoiding isn’t quite the right word, as I have actually been teaching, but tomorrow, when I get to write again, I will have to write about the big jilt. Mary W is pregnant, unmarried, and has shacked up with a sexy American and it is 1793 and I keep wanting to tell her to STOP. He is no good. He is going to abandon you and the baby, but she won’t listen. So, all I can do is write my way through it and eat 500 pretzels. I don’t know why the pretzels help — but they do.