Her foot is stuck in the crib slats. Four injuries in four days. I’m mad at myself for being mad at her.
The smell of sawdust and fresh paint. The clatter and whir of tools. The physical space is taking shape around me as I try to shape the space inside.
There’s nothing happening that merits a real post, which means it’s time for actual material, to start writing up the idea snippets I’ve tucked away for two years. Resistance is heavy and high. Who am I to say ________?
There’s never enough time. Or I’m not using it right. Or both.
Stop crying. Say good things. People are going to think you’re depressed.
I half-finish two things: a blog post and a Compel lesson. That counts as finishing one whole thing, right?
“Doctor Mackenzie wants to cuddle.”
It’s a perfect night to sit outside by a firepit and drink beer and talk until you run out of firewood. Not that I’m doing that, but it cheers me to know soon every night will be like that again.