I woke up in the early hours to the scent of skunk wafting through my open bedroom window. Something got sprayed, but it was not my cat, who was snoozing comfortably in the curl of my knee. I guess we can call that a good start to Monday.

I worked hard all weekend--in the garden, in the house, plus a long hike--so this morning I am a little stiff but also very well rested and ready to attack the one remaining chapter in my editing stack. I don't know how long this one will take to finish (if it's anything like the others in the collection, it won't be easy), but best-case scenario: I'll be done by Wednesday and can take a day or so off . . . at least mostly off . . . before entering the final countdown for the Frost Place conference.

I don't know if that will mean writing. I don't really understand where or what my writing life is at the moment. I feel, in so many ways, that this is not a time for me to talk. It's a time for me to listen and pay attention, to stand in solidarity but keep my mouth shut.

Yet of course I'm a writer, so I write. Something comes out. It may be highly unimportant; it may be the most useless drivel ever. Blah blah blah garden blah blah blah dinner. Or it may be its own version of a chronicle.