Misery. I have a cold, a throat-piercing, chest-grasping cold. When I try to speak, I rasp and clack. My limbs feel heavy as sandbags. Not quite sure how I’m going to manage with P today. I’m longing for bed and books and snoozing, but that’s not how it’s going to be with a toddler around.

It feels so strange not to be writing something. I was glad to finish the first draft of this book; it was often a struggle to find time and heart and courage to write and make progress. But as time goes on I feel lost without it. My free hours are a patchwork of bits and pieces now, mostly pieces that I don’t especially enjoy — website work, clothes shopping, medical appointments, and a million other errands.

There’s reading, too, which I generally do enjoy. But it doesn’t buoy me up the way writing does.