Writing, these days, seems to be a lot like going outside. I always like being outside once I get there, but somehow going doesn’t appeal. I am freshly back from outside, where Cricket and I had a little walk around the school. It’s chilly out there, chilly enough that I probably should have worn a jacket over my sweater over my t-shirt. Or maybe I should have walked faster. I am mostly warm again, except the surface of my eyes. I notice this when I blink.

It’s cloudy. That makes the grass look greener than usual. The sounds of car doors and garbage trucks and invisible airplanes boom out. I think I should have waited for my hair to dry.

Now it is time to pick up the notebook, to feel the stretch in my hand and that itchy part of my brain that senses an imminent movement of the plot. I just have to open the door and step out. I’m sure it’s a beautiful day.