I consider my novel I’m writing and feel distaste. It’s been waiting impatiently for me to work on it, and all I can see is its blatant insufficiency. Maybe three kids under the age of four makes for sad characters, stale pages, gaps and glaring incompetence. Maybe I make it that way.

But I will keep writing. I can’t not write. Maybe in a year, maybe five years, maybe a decade from now I’ll have something that feels like home. Maybe the gaps will fill. Maybe the words will come.

For now I’m planning to schedule in some writing days. Even if I just stare at the page, write words and erase them, fabricate storylines and dismiss them.