Today has not been going well. It started off well enough when I actually woke up before AJ � a rare occurrence � and got a chance to read a little before getting up to work. But it�s gone downhill from there. AJ wet his bed for the third time in two days, so I found myself changing sheets yet again and doing still more laundry. Then, while carrying the laundry basket down to the laundry room, I stepped on a cat, who had been sleeping in the middle of the stairs, and skidded. I avoided falling down the stairs, but I managed to wrench my left hip badly enough that I have trouble sitting still for more than a few minutes at a time. Consequently my morning workout at the pool was rather painful. After I got back, I discovered the workmen had arrived to replace our gutters. As my shower has skylights, I was forced to repair to the less desirable bathroom, which made me grumpy. Then, while running errands with AJ, I got my first ever speeding ticket. It was totally deserved and I wouldn�t feel so bad about it if I had been speeding on purpose. But it would not have happened had I been driving my usual vehicle instead of my husband�s car, which drives so differently that I feel like I�m going a lot slower than I actually am. It could have been worse, though. My husband had forgotten to put the updated insurance info in the car, which means an automatic court date, but he didn�t write me up for that. Some days it seems like it might be better to just stay in bed.

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Thanks to all who responded to yesterday�s entry. Laili-6 asked whether I write much fiction. Not in my diary. And actually, in recent years, not anywhere else either, although I used to write a lot and, in fact, used to think that�s what I wanted to do when I grew up. Lately I�ve found that real life comes up with stories so good that it�s hard not to tell them. I guess that�s why I�m an historian by trade. The story I wrote of Mrs. Timothy yesterday is absolutely true except for Mrs. Timothy�s name. But it reads like something out of Maupassant. When faced with the task of creating both story and character from scratch, I often draw a blank. I�ve grown to love fleshing out data into a tale that is interesting to read, gleaning psychological profiles from brief statements and the assembly of a wide variety of information.

I think the problem of integrating character and plot must be a common one for writers, for it seems there are so many writers who can�t seem to handle both at once. Margaret Atwood comes to mind. Her characterization is wonderful, but her plots are not very compelling. Paul Auster is the other way around. And yet both are authors I love to read. I have read just about everything each of them has ever written. I think perhaps it is their imperfections that keep me going, my desire to see them work it all out.

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