Midnights, March: 14

Friday the 13th and my sisters have been texting spooky stories like it's the old days, all of us tucked into our beds in one room, staring at the ceiling in the dark, silent and breathless and shivering while the eldest scares the bejeezus out of us. 

I pulled up an old first draft today—only 6,000 words, but still. I read it over, appreciating a few sentences, feeling excited to work on it again. However, the wiggly curiosity of an eight-month-old made this all but impossible—at least while he was awake. Unfortunately, I'm still at the point where I need to sleep when he sleeps, so there isn't much time other than…well, right now. Three in the morning. When the brain is the soup.

Yet people make writing work even under conditions far more awkward and challenging than this. So I will try again tomorrow.