I've been in the zone this week, which is my friend Baron's term for those days when the words just keep coming and coming and coming. Fortunately I've also been unemployed so I really have spent five long, uninterrupted schooldays writing, wandering around the house, rolling out pie dough, writing some more, reading, eating cheese and crackers, walking in the woods with the dog, reading, writing some more, etc. It's the perfect schedule and tenable if one undertakes a career as a kept woman, but that is a job I have been able to swing only part time.

Today, if it stops being cloudy and raw, I will plant garlic and transplant kale into the greenhouse. Possibly I will write some more. I'm at a scary part of the Phaeton poem, when the boy loses control of the Sun's chariot, and it's easy to find something less fraught to do than detail a celestial car accident. This sounds flippant, but in fact immersing myself into these situations is very unpleasant. I can do it, I want to do it, I have to do it, I'm in the zone, but I don't like it. This is why writing is not therapy.

Dinner tonight: variety small pizzas decorated with various garden gleanings; spinach and lettuce salad; ice cream from the store because I'm just not in the mood to make another pie.