I said, yesterday, in the six-month post, that there was a wordless tug toward whatever comes next. This is what it looks like from the outside: a dock at Issyk-Kul, a stack of paper held down against the wind by a stone because I have not yet trusted this idea with a proper folder, and a cardigan I kept putting on and taking off as the sun went down and the temperature argued with itself.
I am not going to name what the next book is. I have learned that saying a title out loud too early is a good way to talk myself out of writing it. What I will say is that the pages under that stone are the first ones, and that they arrived the way the good ones always do - sideways, while I was doing something else, in this case failing to relax at a lake I came to specifically in order to relax.
Ternary Dreams took years to become a real object with an ISBN. Whatever this is has, as of this dusk, existed for one evening. I wanted to mark the moment before it turns into a schedule and a deadline and all the ordinary machinery a book eventually becomes. Right now it is still just weather and water and a stone holding down an idea.