I should admit that I expected to be getting a lot of writing done. And I'm not.
But I have cleared all my raised beds of weeds, and today I plnated carrots, beets and turnips.
I write a lot, inside my mind. But somehow the days on the calendar pass very slowly, but the hours of work go by quickly. And suddnely here it is, 10:43 at night, and these are the first words I've typed today.
I've mentioned elsewhere that the Bee story I was working on featured, guess what? A plague that had jumped species. It would have looped back to connect to the Blood Plague. But now is not the time to write something like that. Or even read something like that.
But I haven't been reading much either. I've been doing. Lots of doing, of things that I know I'll be glad I did four or five months from now. I've cleared and organized cabinets. Weeded the garden, planted food. It's satisfying work.
I know I will go back to putting words on the page. I did some yesterday. But for today, the writing was only inside my head.
Some days are like that.