Finally I spent some time last night editing the poems in my fledgling Song Book collection. The manuscript has been lying on a table in the living room for days now, and I have persevered in ignoring it. For some reason I have not had even the slightest wish to read my own work. Every time I glance at it, I wince. It's not that I dislike the poems or the task of editing them, but there's something in my head that is driving me away from creative work. I blame this stupid house-selling mess, along with its stupid house-selling vocabulary: escrow, walk-through, price point. I am being transformed into a jargon-bot.

Tonight I have band practice, and for two hours nobody in the room will use the words "priced to sell" or "desirable neighborhood" or "cute as a button, just needs your finishing touch." I can't wait.