We’ve all been under the weather this week, sniffling and sneezing and longing for spring.
I’ve not had much time for writing, but I’ve been trying to be gentle with myself about that. Sure, I’d like to have another book published someday. But when (or even whether) that happens doesn’t matter to me anywhere near as much as my family does. And that being so, writing has to take a back seat. And sometimes not even that.
All things considered, I suppose the real wonder is that I ever finished the first draft of this novel, and that I continue, however slowly, to work on the next. And that I’m still excited by it and able to think in constructive ways about it.
(Sometimes, that is. Other days, I feel like it’s all I can do to remember my own name.)