I envy people who experience writing fevers. For 27 days or 29 days or 31 days or 17 days—it’s always an odd number—they do not eat or sleep or shit or piss or shift their body position as they pour out their 500-page masterpieces in one long, perfect stream of infinitely inspired prose. The angels pause their singing while this is happening, the mosquitoes stop biting people, and even the wind knows it should not move a precious scrap of anything that will break the writer’s focus. Oh, such divinely divine divinity.
I love these baby wasps that you have shared this morning.
Thank you!