Up a little later than usual, as T doesn't need to leave for work quite so early today. Yesterday I kept being overcome by sleepiness, then slept hard all night . . . I'm not sick, or bodily exhausted; I feel good, actually, but clearly something internal is longing for naps, so why not give in to it?

I haven't been able to settle down to writing yet. Yesterday I sorted through some recent drafts, decided which had promise, which did not. But I didn't do much else literary, other than read Oliver Twist. And at the salon last night, my starts were clunky and unpromising. My head's not in the game at the moment, but I'm not going to fret. Sometimes it takes me a few days to switch from workworkwork into a productive state of idleness. Even if I don't write a useful word this week, I'll be soaking up spaciousness, and that may be good enough.

Today I've got a few errands to run and Christmas cards to fill. I'll finish Oliver and find another novel to read. I'm planning to make French onion soup, and that will take time--the long caramelizing stage cannot be rushed. I'll walk in the cold air. Whatever I accomplish today will be good enough.