Nice day, though the coolness of the earlier week (highs in the 70s) has passed like a memory of youth. It got up to 90 degrees today. This is annoying when I drive my loaner car (a Honda Civic), because the driver’s side window won’t roll down partially – it’s full commitment one way or the other. Like all sane vehicle operators, I like to leave the windows cracked about an inch when I park on a hot day, but with this one I can only do one side. You don’t get the cross-ventilation.

And yes, Miss Ingebretsen, my PT Cruiser, still languishes at the transmission shop. They tell me they think they’ve located the cables we need, and might possibly have them tomorrow.

I’ve heard this song before.

Anyway, the Civic gets me around – and with a little more zip than Miss Ingebretsen, I have to admit. Had to go to the dermatologist for an annual check-up this afternoon; I won’t disgust you with details about that. Nothing serious. My flesh is generally uninteresting (as many women have noted over the years), which is what you’d inspect in a man who gets less Ultraviolet than the average Morlock.

I arrived precisely on time, to be confronted with a sign that said “No Admittance Without a Face Mask.” This shouldn’t have surprised me – they’d made it clear when we scheduled the appointment. They get cancer patients with compromised immunity in there. But I hadn’t thought about it. I keep a stock of masks in Miss Ingebretsen for just such emergencies. But of course they’re baking in the transmission shop lot right now. And it never occurred to me to stash any in the Civic.

So I stood outside the clinic door, and called them on my cell phone. When the woman behind the desk answered, I made eye contact and told her, “I’m standing outside the door talking to you. This is embarrassing, but I haven’t got a face mask…”

She waved me in and handed me one from the cache I expected them to have there. No doubt I’m not the first patient in that situation.

What else to say? I’m revising, revising, revising on King of Rogaland. It’s amazing how lame (yet resonant) my Negative Interior Voice’s arguments are – “This is hopeless. You’ll never finish it.” Despite the fact that the thing is essentially written, and I’m just polishing now. Though it’s true the bumps never seem to run out. I’ve still got a lot of loose plot ends to tie up, and some ends are tied to the wrong other ends, and so need to be untied and re-tied somewhere else. This is far from the longest novel I’ve ever written, but it seems to be the most complex. Lots to keep track of.

I think I may not be smart enough to write this book.

But I plan to finish it anyway. When did I ever claim to be smart?