Sunday night notes, stories

It only took a few hours for the void cause by my phone's absence to fill with story, and I am reminded for the second time in a few months how much happier I am without a cell phone.

I thought the gym would be dismal without music, but I just spent the time reading the news ticker and making up dialogue in my head.

However, the phone is back now, with a fresh battery, and I do want to be able to text beloved comrades and receive earthquake alerts. I'll try having it live in the desk drawer and see how that goes.

The trouble with me, as I was telling A., is that all I really want to write are love stories in which a rather sad person is finally Truly Loved.¹

I finished my re-read of Penelope Fitzgerald (Offshore, Human Voices, The Beginning of Spring) and now I am casting about again for bedside reading. Fitzgerald's mix of amused compassion and devastating human failure is difficult to emulate. My reading was interrupted by having loaned the collection to K. in the middle of Human Voices (poor judgement). She loved it, so I also loaned her At Freddie's, which, while it it is maybe not the absolute best Fitzgerald novel, contains probably my favorite scene in all of her work. (And K. guessed which scene it was, which pleases. And you may too if you like that sort of thing.)

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1. Well, a trouble.