This evening my husband came home and found me sitting outside the house on the swing. I was wearing pajamas and sunglasses, crying because life is hard and I am sensitive and the two are ganging up on me.
Ready to dance?
Because my brain is so often huffing and puffing its way through an editing gauntlet, one of the things I look forward most to on my day off is . . . nothing. Well, no, not nothing; that would boring, and then I’d become restive, which is a fancy word for twitchy, which isn’t pretty–at all. The nothing I speak of is more of minimal something, requiring very little of me cognitively: