Rosy?

Sonoma Roses
I'm not a photographer. When you are married to a photographer for 30 years, using a camera can be about as intuitive as moonwalking. Yet the early evening light on the roses Scott (thanks, Scott!) brought down from Sonoma on Sunday (our workshop day) has been so beautiful that I had to try. I really like the way the picture came out. It makes me think of the light in Vermeer's oil paintings.

Still no definite word on anything, but as far as I know, I'm not out of the running for the job I applied for. I've been offered another contract, which makes things a wee bit hairy. I'm not good at juggling.

But anyway, I've been enjoying the end of my slow summer, of staring off into my garden, of wearing flip-flops, of sipping my peppermint tea. The grind will start again soon.

Oh, I'm also reading a very interesting book (actually reading about six books, multi-tasking) called After Confession: Poetry as Autobiography. It's a collection of essays, edited by Kate Sontag and David Graham and published by Graywolf, by everyone you could think of, practically, about the question or questions involved in writing from or about or in or around the first person. I got the book in Interlibrary loan, but I may have to buy it so I can mark it up, digest it.