I have spent the week coddling a cold-ridden child through his exam week, and I am tired. You know how it is.

I also spent the week finishing up a new essay while ducking a barrage of rejection letters for poems that I know are good. The intersection was disheartening, and I had a hard time staying concentrated on making new work . . . not that I didn't persevere, but you know what I mean.

On the bright side, I'll be teaching my lyric essay workshop in New Hampshire this spring, so that makes three different venues. On the bright side, the dog will enjoy riding in the car on the way to getting her rabies shot, and the main roads will be clear of ice and snow, and a classic Wu-Tang Clan album has mysteriously downloaded onto my phone.

On the bright side, my child was grateful for the coddling, and the temperature outside is several degrees above zero, and my haircut is more or less okay. And the essay came out well, though it made me sad to write it, which accounts, I think, for today's residual sadness. Writing is not a way to feel better about the world, but it is a way to feel.