Sighed

While reading in Brick Magazine of Stan Dragland’s demise, I saw a synchronicity to use. August 2, 2022. Coincidentally, this date aligns with something I have worked on for two years, a novel I have called The Wind at Dawn, after an art song by the English composer Edward Elgar. In the story, a writer of no great achievement pursues his craft in Montreal, the city where seven years ago he met the love of his dreams on a Saint Lawrence summer dinner cruise. This magical evening was on August 2, 1992—thirty years before the current year, in which the epilogue takes place. The span of thirty years is significant to the plot, secondary only to the recurrent gap of seven years. My obsession with dates could not let this go. I got up from my reading desk, and immediately sat here in front of my computer, the very time and place from which I now speak to you.