Writing my book, I’m often stuck between wondering if I’m working too slowly or too quickly. I’m finding there are seasons of vast productivity, inescapable inertia, frustrating despondency, and manic energy. I notice how folding laundry and washing dishes can often be more interesting than making myself write, and how personal situations can zap my focus from writing. (In defense of folding laundry and doing dishes, I actually find those tasks very relaxing, a type of brain-body meditation that relaxes my mind.)