Round about 3 p.m. yesterday, I suddenly wilted--that's best word description I can find for my shot reaction . . . though, of course, I have no idea which vaccine I was reacting to. I was not sick or incapacitated. I cooked dinner and stayed awake until my normal bedtime. Merely, I wilted. 

But this morning, after a solid night's sleep, I'm back to normal: girded to edit footnotes, excited about my midday haircut. Plus, a second well known poet has enthusiastically agreed to blurb my book, so how could I not feel peppy?

Yesterday, despite my growing indisposition, I finished editing the bulk of a chapter, went for a long walk with my neighbor, and made black-olive yeast rolls and chocolate pudding and enchiladas. Today I'm hoping for less cooking and more writing; I haven't allowed myself to take any writing time lately, and I need to turn on that faucet. I feel as if I've been writing well, when I've had the chance to do it, but I've been so overbooked with work that I've had to deliberately squelch myself. I think the reactions of these kind poet-blurbers are maybe reminding me that I should stop doing that.