Later in the dark, Mr and Miss DWH watch fireworks at the state park.
Mr. DWH sends a note: This morning, I checked the status of our garden. I believe we are seeing spouts of corn peeking out of the soil.
As for the book, how goes it, how goes it not; how goes it, how goes it not.
Miss DWH has a fascination with letters, where writers divulge their deepest, most confidential selves. Once upon a time, in a land far far away, she spent Sunday afternoons moodling and writing these letters, herself. Strange things came from her, unexpected, surprising.
- Collect these letters
- Collect my first line - where did Miss DWH hide it? "I am throwing things away..."
- Collect my epigram - Rilke
- Collect old stories and entries, useful as bits and pieces in Lost Letters of Jane Austen
- Junk the useless journal entries, built when tired and guaranteed to crash when weight is put upon them
- Write about throwing things away
- Write write write