September 17

6 a.m. Water. Psalm 22. Five minutes of silence. Pumpkin spice coffee. Affirmations: “When I write, I am…” Mary Oliver.

My daughter wakes and ends the quiet. Today is the first day I will be alone in more than a month. Husband at work, kids at school. Yesterday I made a list so I won’t lose my way and end up on the couch all day. Unless the couch is where I need to be. I’m not sure yet.

7 a.m. Daughter on the bus, son still asleep. Big Magic. Write note: “Ideas are looking for human collaborators every sing day.” Stay open. Wake son, lay out his clothes. Get dressed. More pumpkin spice.

Some mornings I try to imagine myself sitting at my desk in the throes of inspiration. I find photos online of women I admire doing their work. What would Anne Sexton do right now? What about Joan Didion or Dani Shapiro? I have no clue. These were women who had children and were also devoted to their craft. They had a purpose. They stayed the course.

8 a.m. Play cards with son. Toss wilted sunflowers in the trash. Wait for the bus, kiss goodbye. Sit at desk, consult list. Write a few paragraphs. Finish coffee. Wash dishes.

My son hands me the new Dog Man, an assignment for the day. “Make sure you don’t skip the first part,” he says. “It’s so funny.” I laugh and take the book from him. I know I won’t read it. He will leave and I will turn the music up so loud I feel it in my chest. My body, a drum, and all I want is to beat it.

9-11 a.m. Breakfast, then the gym to lift weights. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

My back has hurt for almost a month, flaring the sciatica in my left leg. My chiropractor has adjusted me twice, neither time to much avail. But I have hope. The gym is open, and I go to outdoor spinning. I go to the sports performance center. I get on the rowing machine. I stretch and stretch and stretch until my body is pliable like putty.

11 a.m.-2:30 p.m. Stop by the farm stand for flowers. Buy a bundle of zinnias. Make lunch at home, eat, lie down for a nap. Shower. Ignore dirty dishes. Write for a few minutes.

I am exhausted every afternoon. I consult my list and wonder how anyone gets anything done, then I remember that most people only ever get half of their list done, no matter how long it is. My list has thirteen items and I’ve done six, which feels like an accomplishment. But I end up on the couch anyway. I light a pumpkin candle and wait for the kids to come home, warm a hot water bottle and place it behind my back. I open a novel and, as soon as I do, I hear the bus. Here is my daughter, the quiet dissolving like stitches holding me in place.