I didn't mean to go the best part of a week without updating, but there wasn't much to say, to differentiate one night from the next. We work, we read, we write, we talk, we cook, we drink wine, we play with the kittens.

I finished reading The Basic Eight and liked it well enough, though I saw the plot twist at the end coming (actually, because another (more high-profile) novel published a few years before has exactly the same high-concept plot twist, I thought I was guessing incorrectly -- but, no, same twist). Today I read Steve Martin's novella Shopgirl. Eh. A nice enough afternoon read, but it would've been better if there had been an occasional scene; the thing's 99% exposition, and the omniscient narrator's voice isn't engaging enough to make up for the lack of real scenes. I like Martin's essays better than his fiction. Now I'm looking for the next book to read.

Heather and I have been hermits all weekend. We had a couple of opportunities to go socialize, but bowed out in favor of nesting. We went out for lunch on Saturday, but otherwise didn't leave the house at all, not even for our by-now-customary weekend matinee. We cleaned house, played games, frolicked, worked on the chapbook (we should have it ready for printing next week; details to follow) and kept ourselves entertained. Pleasant, but not interesting. It's a wonderfully grey, on-the-edge-of-hibernation time. We sit and listen to the rain against the windows. We're wintering.