Sent my book, White City, to my agent today. It's the solstice, & all that, & seemed like a good time ... couldn't do any more with it save wreck, perhaps, its fragile coherence. Last time I read it through, over last Sunday and Monday, it seemed more like a set of themes & variations than a story as such. I mean, it has a narrative, events unfold sequentially through time, but the writing has a tendency to riff around certain perennial preoccupations - mine & others - rather than gallop to an end. I guess that's okay. Guess it's fine. It just ... surprised me.