There's been nothing to report since the drive up to Gloucester on the 10th. The sun has kept us indoors, which would have been fine, except I've discovered that I was entirely mistaken in my belief that I could write in a make-shift office amid the peace and quiet of rural Rhode Island. Indeed, more and more, it seems I am incapable of writing anywhere but at my own desk, in my office, at home. This experiment is, in that regard, a resounding failure. I've written not one word of fiction since arriving here on July 26th. I know that many other writers do it — write outside that "room of one's own." I know that for a fact. Too bad I'm not one of them. I haven't even gotten around to proofreading The Dry Salvages for the e-version. I have, in the main, been quite frelling useless. And I could ill afford a month without work.
We have tried to watch the Perseid shower, but a very bright waning moon, nocturnal clouds, and a bit of light pollution have combined to make the meteors all but invisible from where we are. We've been out two nights straight and have counted a paltry nine meteors between us. I will admit that #9 was perhaps the most brilliant meteor I've ever seen, but on the whole it's been quite a disappointment.
We'd thought about making it up to Salem and Marblehead today, but neither me nor Spooky were up to the wild Bostonian traffic and the brilliant shining sun.
Right. Enough of the public displays of glumness. More later, inevitably...