Only Natural

Got up early, before dawn, sorted out what I had done last night, editing and writing. Read for hours, tracking down that southern gothic style, from Faulkner, through McCarthy's early work, into the grandchildren. William Gay is very good. Almost anything can be said. A novel I want to write is simply walking to the store with a nickel. Five pieces of penny candy. We were sitting out on the concrete steps, I'd rolled Alexis a smoke, and she thought I was the coolest thing ever. I'm not. I can barely speak. Some lights were on, down below, and the lake was sparkling. A few people were walking, going home for the night. She was wearing a charm bracelet and one of the charms was a gold State-Champion soft-ball team metal. I ask her about it, she played third base and had a rifle arm. Hit .421 her senior season, .525 in the playoffs, an amazing .625 in the finals, with a walk-off homer in the fifth game. When she asked me what I did, I hardly knew what to say. If I'm lucky, I said, I write a paragraph. If I'm unlucky, I just tread water. Bede, Life of Cuthbert, caught in a comet's tail.