I didn't set foot outside the house yesterday, other than to empty the kitchen recycling pail into the outdoor bin. Even in the dead of winter that is unusual behavior for me, but these editing projects have chained me to the desk. Today, though, I've got a walk date, so to hell with the stack, at least for an hour.

I don't feel like I have much interesting chat to share. For obvious reasons, I never talk on this blog about other people's manuscripts, but other people's manuscripts are presently absorbing the bulk of my days. Around the edges I am making chicken adobo, folding towels, reading George Eliot, doing sun salutations on my mat, admonishing Chuck about jumping on the kitchen counter, answering emails, lugging firewood up from the basement, brewing yet another cup of tea, texting my kid about baseball trades, and not sleeping quite as much as I wish I were.

The fact that I am not engaged in organizing a new poetry manuscript is beginning to weigh on me.