Here in Pennsylvania it rained. All day.
G is so sick she sat on the couch and binge-watched DVR-ed episodes of Long Island Medium and drank copious amounts of hot water laced with coconut oil and raw honey. She is really sick.
I did 47 loads of laundry, went to the ATM, and to the store for ingredients to make homemade chicken soup (Jewish penicillin) tomorrow. Between Jennifer’s good advice (thanks Jen!) and my soup, we’ll wean her away from women with scary fingernails who speak to the dead.
While we were in Portland I did no writing except here. That was the plan. I gave myself permission not to write on vacation, but what it means is that tomorrow I need to sit in the Space Chair and start to crank.
Cranking isn’t writing. Cranking is like hand-pumping water. Nothing comes out for the first 500 pumps, but then, lo and behold, a little trickle, then a gush, and another, till eventually you’ve got a nice gush of paragraphs flowing.
I had that gushy rhythm going before I left, but I lost the momentum.
So now it’s crank-time again. This is why writers need to write every day, to keep the gush going.