The past couple of days have been odd. I’ve been restless, moody, terribly social, terribly anti-social… I’m not quite sure what’s going on, but I’d like it to settle down. I slept a grand total of two and a half hours last night, then had a staff meeting this morning, managed to completely forget my god-daughter’s birthday family gathering this afternoon, arrived at said gathering with the hatchings of a migraine, left quietly two hours later, came home and hid under the covers for two hours of solid, blissful sleep. It got rid of the headache, but now I’m awake and my sleep schedule is even further off-kilter.

I’m now reading Virginia Woolf’s diaries, and I’m incredibly gratified to learn that if she wrote between fifty and two hundred fifty words per day, she considered herself successful (well, as successful as someone that self-critical can feel; perhaps ‘on-schedule’ would be a better term to use). If I pull off a minimum of two thousand per day, then, I’m doing just fine. Mind you, I entertain absolutely no notions that I’m any sort of a Virginia Woolf. None whatsoever. So no one needs to get nervous when I’m around water.