The stairwell to the basement had an area just above the door, on the stairs side, that we hadn’t been able to reach: a grip-footed extension ladder and me to steady it let Jane get that.

Her job of mudding the bathroom wall where the backsplash was is impeccable: if we’d hired it done, it probably would have had a few flaws. Hers is so good we have to look at the unaffected board and wonder if it’s too smooth, but it looks good when painted: as we have indeed painted it. So we’re ready for the sofit, the lights, the cabinets, which we can put up.

We have the tile ordered, and it may be here today. (It comes from Seattle.) Ironically, what may put us off a week is a pencil thin rim of dark tile that will border our little mural: it’s coming from California, and will be here next week if Seattle doesn’t happen to have enough. But at least by next week, we will have all the pieces, and tile will happen, and we will have one more very important fully-finished room!

And the book is finally moving!

Let me add—I’ve always maintained there’s no such thing as writer’s block, because the fault isn’t that much in the writer…

What happens is that a writer fails to maintain enough personal space. We’re difficult sorts to live with—we go standoffish at times, and that’s that ‘personal space’ business; we don’t answer mail, we don’t open letters; we let papers stack up;’ we forget invitations, anniversaries, and holidays—and it’s all that personal space and clear schedule thing. When Jane was sick, all that personal space protection went to blazes; when she got well, I was still rattled, and construction began; and it continued through ‘birthday season,’ mine, hers, Lynn’s—and into the holidays; and more construction—and all my what-iffing faculty was engaged with tile choices and cabinets and painting and such, because hers was, and then mine was, and we both got ourselves involved. No wonder the writing got confused. So we’re now carefully redefining that personal space we each need, the time we need to spend solving puzzles of a writing kind, that don’t have to do with computers, programming, wiring, painting, tile choice, learning-how, and all the other kind of puzzles that can fill your mind. When a writer’s writing, the puzzles all need to be writing-puzzles, if that makes sense. So now that we’ve officially put off the flooring problem, and are closing in on the bathroom problem, we are determined to do our puzzle-solving in terms of story. And that, for a writer, means a happy writer.