Barbara Greer (2016)
“Both windows were raised behind the blinds and a warm breeze blew in, stirring very slightly the heavy curtains. From the desk where he sat, Preston Woodcock could hear, distantly but identifiably, sounds of voices and laughter from the swimming pool, the clatter of the diving board as it pounded against its fulcrum, the noisy splashes into the water. But his attention was fixed on the sheets of paper before him. He wrote slowly, carefully, pausing frequently to re-read what he had written, his... lips moving deliberately, forming the words, almost whispering them aloud to himself. Now and then he would lift his pen and draw a thin line through a word or phrase that displeased him, editing, changing bits of punctuation, substituting one word for another, re-arranging sentences, circling them, repositioning them with tiny arrows. His expression was thoughtful, frowning, his eyes intent behind the shell-rimmed glasses. At last he put his pen down, scooped up the pages in front of him, squared them with his hands, and stood up.MoreLess
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