Still and all. Today I went for a walk in the rain alone with the dog. I wore sturdy boots and cotton (denim) trousers and a warm wool jacket. We walked by the lake and past the slough and through the trees, and I noticed the violets coming up in the park, and the water lilies on the lake, and where a child had cut a path through the woods from the apartment complex, using a bad pocketknife (and I know what those paths look like, because I was once that child, and I had a bad pocketknife too, then). I kept the dog from disturbing the nesting mallards in the bushes. I watched how the rain made the white petals fall from the flowering trees. I knew they would like all of it. And I knew they meant that someone else should do all this, not a grown woman and not a technophile and certainly not a grown woman technophile. And I thought, well, screw you, Bronson Alcott, grown woman technophiles can notice violets, too. (I find myself thinking, "Screw you, Bronson Alcott!" with increasing force with each of Louisa May Alcott's books I reread as an adult. It's really alarming, the level of hostility I am developing towards this long-dead man.)
And then I think I haven't progressed as a writer since I was 11 years old and desperately wanted there to be a new ending of Rilla of Ingleside where Walter didn't die, because this book on the back burner, the one I've barely started to research, is really about getting Louisa May Alcott free of her father. And Louisa May Alcott isn't even in this book. But Magdalen Branch is, and there is a bad pocketknife in the pocket of her apron, and I can feel it all, the worn cotton around my hand and the smooth wood and rusting metal of the knife, and I can smell the rust and the flour and the goldenrod as she walks off, and I know I will write this book one of these days whether it's a good idea to do it or not.