5 pm. Back from the house. Back to work polishing previous chapter and untangling notes for the next one.

9:45 pm. Put the book to bed.

10:15. Played the tape recorded chapters, Lynn’s nightly bedtime story.

2:38 am. Woke with tape recorder still strapped to wrist and buried in the pillows, like a wandering dog on a long tether.

4:30. Woke with the logic-key to the end of the book intact in my skull, already written. Fumbled for tape recorder and got it all down.

In the past 48 hours, I have discovered that, in the fear of fear, the remedy is love. The love of my dearest friend and a cathartic long distance telephone conversation. The love of the characters that fascinates me away from the terror of parting with them. The love of the delighted discovery of “geez, did I really write that?” The love of the ethers, where the words live, waiting to be revealed in sleep. And, last, the love of that place, past pain, in which I might finally find a way to let the whole thing go.

Strange, strange existence, this writer’s life. Would I trade it for anything? What do you think?