I made a pie from scratch, my first. I didn’t want to buy canned pumpkin so I made it from a butternut squash.

I’m in a jangle rock rut listening to a lot of music that would be great if the band had recorded a serviceable drummer and recorded like the 80s. Or even 90s. I understand bedroom recordings and Protools (is that still what they use?) but golly gee just gimme an organic beat with the snare snapping and over the top toms and fun fills at every break. Anyhoo: old man yells at cloud. One of the best things I’ve done in life is not learn how to play or write music. It lets me still enjoy it. I need it. I love it. All the writing I’ve done has turned me into a snob, even though I couldn’t match in skill or style any writing that moves me. Annie Dillard, Denis Johnson, Shirley Hazzard, Jim Harrison, a billion others I’ve forgotten. Authors whose pages you read with admiration and awe.

One saving grace is that I can barely remember what I’ve written, only the name of the title and where I was when I was moved by the text. So I’ve given up on the idea of having intelligent conversations about books. It would just be a lot of stuttering, failing to remember titles and moments. I finished a draft of my Nebraska novel, retitled it, loved it, imported it into a reader app to admire it, and now I hate it again. It just needs a good squeeze I hope. Twist the towel and watch all that sloppy language wash down the sink. Maybe I’m still seeking the beat. Or maybe it’s just an ugly pie.