I tell you, today I was in it, deep in it. The tulips on my windowsill--the Mystery ones--started opening in the night; not only are they feathered at the edges of their red but green-and-yellow-streaked petals, but they also have a scent like roses. They are, in short, magic. By noon I was writing, the scent of rose tulips drifting over from a few feet away, and then it was time for the piano, and then it was time for my walk, and then it was time for dinner, and somehow I'd written quite a lot, in three discrete rounds, which was my goal for the day. These days, if you see me, you see a person who's usually doing her best to seem at least somewhat interested in actually being out of her room or with other people. But sometimes I'm feeling as though I don't want to be bothered, and I hate the fact that that's probably boosting my productivity. But: everything in its time, I tell myself.
Today: 1240 words.