I have broken my ankle, and my story was rejected today. John brought the mail to me while I lay on the guest room bed and watched a program on Walt Whitman, taking careful notes. Outside the gardeners were here, and two of them, I could see through the window, were jousting with rakes. Initially I thought they were playing lacrosse. Which would have been safer than what they were doing, but also less likely. The story came in the envelope I had sent it in, addressed to me in my handwriting. But there must be some mistake, because I would never send my story back to me. I would accept it, and publish it to great acclaim.

I can lie on my stomach quite comfortably, with my foot either up in the air or resting on a pillow. In this position I can forget about my foot. I can touch my feet together. I can scratch my injured foot, absently, with my hand. I just can’t stand on it. In other words, while I lie on the bed and watch Walt Whitman, I can do whatever it is I want to do, and I forget that I am injured. And when I send a story out into the world and it has not come back, that doesn’t hurt either. Oh, I am tender, though. I am really tender.