On Weds. we went into Blue Hill for the afternoon farmers' market. Not much to buy but chanterelles (aww!) as the rains have been very hard on the gardens. Then we met up with old friend Jonathan Lethem, who's just started a used bookstore called Red Gap, right next to Blue Hill Antiques - part of their annex, really, right down on Water Street - which is, as always, the little jag off Main(e) Street that leads down to the harbor . It's an enchanting little shop, with couches and espresso machine and books floor to ceiling. It is, in fact, the bookstore we all dreamed of owning when we were kids. Figures. Well, I'm glad one of us got it. And the rest of us can visit. Jonathan claims he opened in part to redeem the boxes and boxes of old books he's been hoarding for years. Yes, even with an apartment in Brooklyn & the dearest little farmhouse in Maine, there is never enough room for all the books. I think I first met him when he was working in a little used bookstore in San Francisco. Oh, and if you're interested, it's pronounced "LEEth-um" (and "CHAY-bun," Michael, is his friend. ["U"s standing in for schwas, which I don't know how to type]).

Then we went up to the house, to meet his wife Amy and little boy Everett. Both enchanting. After about 5 minutes, I felt I'd known Amy forever. Everett insisted on driving the car; but since he's only 2, we didn't start it for him. He seemed content anyway. Before Everett appeared post-nap, we sat in J's study, drank tea, and talked about books and writing. J said he's taken the past year off from novel writing - he's got a big fat new one coming out any day now, which has fantastical elements, take note! - in favor of short fiction, playing with a 2-yr-old, and reading. He said he deliberately turned his morning writing time into reading time. I've been thinking about that. I sure don't read as much fiction as I used to. Too much instant gratification online: little gobbets of factoids on demand wherever my fancy takes me, and constant connection with friends & colleagues . . . Not reading isn't good for me, as a human being and an artist. I need to know the field(s), and I need to be inspired. And to shut up from time to time. I'm not as organized as Jonathan - his study was an oasis of calm and bookish order - and never will be; but I'm a quick study, and can take a hint from the Galaxy, I hope.

Delia & Jonathan crossed the street to the blueberry field and picked those tiny little Maine wild blueberries, coming back with colanders well-lined, and many mosquito bites. We bade each other a fond farewell, and drove off to Blue Hill for one more round of internet at the library, and clam rolls.

Not sure when I'll get to send this, but writing it on Sunday morning, our last day here. The owners of the house, Delia's schoolfriend Eleanor & her husband Leigh (always thanked in our novels for the Writing Retreat space) & D's goddaughter Georgina, arrived late Friday night. Yesterday they took us sailing in their wooden boat, and I got to hold the tiller for some minutes. Today we're socked in with pure fog. Those who can, are knitting. I should go back to writing my novel. It probably sucks - but who am I to say? They all do, at some point. There will be occasional flashes of brilliance, yet; and for the rest, there will be Revision. (Yesterday, Georgina - who'd gone to get paper so she could teach Delia to make origami cranes - overheard me reading a new scene to Delia - a rapid monotone interlaced with editorial: "OK, I'm actually going to combine those two bits . . . . Listen, this is brililiant - or will be when I fill in the blanks [a poem]! . . . I know, I know, she shouldn't be able to read, but - oh, wait. No, that's good. That gives it somewhere to go. OK, fine; she can't read, you're right.")

[CORRECTION ADDED: Name of J's store]