Last night I sat outside in the evening and read my own book, Thief. It's the first time I've really been able to look at it since I received the bound galleys early in the year, or the final, finished book this spring.

When Swimming Sweet Arrow  came out, it was years before I could hold it and read it entire and be glad. When it was published, good friends were supportive and so were many strangers, and the book got good reviews, but I also offended a whole raft of people because I wrote so blatantly about sex.

Looking over Thief, I saw it was the book I meant to write. It says what I want it to say.

I leave for London tomorrow to promote the book there with Atlantic, my U.K. publisher. I'm curious to see how people respond.

But today is a lovely, hot spring day in the meadow. I'll probably spend most of the day in a nightgown, alternately packing and wandering outside to watch birds. A couple minutes ago, a bluebird came to sit on top of one of the shepherd's hook holding a hummingbird feeder, and I loved seeing its periwinkle? azure? sky? coloring. And everything smells so good, especially the resinous evergreens.