Writing from home
means that when you hear a large clunk from somewhere deep in the bowels of the house, you ignore it and keep writing. And when you have forgotten all about it and eventually wander over to put the clothes (guiltily) into the dryer — shouldn’t they be hung out to dry? — you remember the clunk because the jug of laundry detergent has fallen off its shelf. It’s lying in a pool of soap because you did not screw the top on the last time you used it. At least, this is what just happened to me. For a moment, I thought I could pretend this had not happened and wait for some grown up, like my mother, to clean it up. But since I am now the resident grown up (and the mother) I had to mop it up. This instead of circling the Marys who just last week felt so urgent. Now, after a four day hiatus, thanks to teaching and book partying, I have no idea what I was writing about and have been busily not writing about them all morning.