A small room behind a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

I slept late this morning, awaking this way, then turning that way; awaking that way, and this went on for some time.

The first time I awoke the room was bright, and I stared at the towers beside my table: one tower of novels, the other of non-novels, I guess.

This summer has been a summer of reading novels; or if not reading novels, then listening to them discussed on CBC radio, where the interviewers only want to talk about novels that parallel the life of their authors.

The author's novel. The novel's author.  Has someone tracked the passage from ficto-criticism to criti-fiction to autofiction yet?