My son has moved off the couch and has moved into the complaining phase of convalescence. He is overwhelmed by how much homework he has to do. I am no help as I am in Italy (figuratively speaking) with the Shelleys. They are enjoying their last happy months. Soon, their little daughter will die, and then their son, and then Shelley himself. Mary will have to live a long time on her own. I am not looking forward to these deaths. Maybe that is why I am stalling by writing a blog post. I should be nicer to my son, as he is still alive.
When I am not writing, I spend time doing writers’ math. If I finish 50 pages this week, that will put me at page 300. If I finish 50 more pages, then I will be at 350. None of this makes me much fun at, say, a dinner party. Either I want to provide news flashes from 1818: “Did you know that Shelley was the first translator of the Symposium?!” — or, I want to talk about how many more days there are until Dec. 1, the day this is due.
The scariest thing of all is that my book is not a biography of Rin Tin Tin — is that how you spell that dog’s name? — Susan Orlean’s new book. This is what people want to read, according to the New York Times best seller list. That, and The Help. Another book that my book is not.