The envelope came some days ago, a thick thing, and I was excited to see it, but wasn’t quite ready to open it — the first draft of my book with comments and notes from my editor. Yesterday, a quiet empty morning, I drove to my home town to a back road near a farm. I used to go there when I was young and look at the field and the stone wall and the big tall pine trees that line the edge of the field. I opened the envelope there, and looked through the notes, which were wise and motivating, and re-read some of what I’d written, flipped through every page of the draft. The car got cold. I wasn’t sure at first why I wanted to be there to look at it, why I couldn’t just read it at the kitchen table. But I think it’s because I knew I would feel embarrassed (god, why I did I write that, and that, and that), and wanted to be alone with that. I did feel embarrassed. And, driving back to Cambridge after some panic-buying at my hometown grocery store for this big blizzard that’s coming, I also felt excited, very excited, about re-attacking it, about really digging in. And, in other news, I just found out that Anne Carson is giving a reading here in town in March, and that makes me really excited, too.