The wind is howling here, the rain lashing sideways across the windows, toppling the rose bush momentarily before it bounces back up for repeat beating. I don& #39;t know why it JUST occurred to me, I may never see my newest book on the shelves of a brick and mortar bookstore.

I likely won& #39;t see it on the shelves of most libraries since none are open to order, and books like mine have a very brief shelf life. Meanwhile, in Tennessee, a little boy lies in the ICU, not from covid but from the winds there that decided a pandemic wasn& #39;t enough.

I& #39;ve been "praying" for him -- my version of wishing and breathing love and light. These times are so strange. There& #39;s nowhere to put the pain and the overwhelm. Only the gratitude, resilience, and ability to keep going. I don& #39;t know, some mornings, what to do with it all.

I& #39;ve sold a book in the middle of it, but I haven& #39;t written. I haven& #39;t touched writing since the first weeks so long ago. I& #39;ve been sick myself for much of it, with I don& #39;t know what. I don& #39;t watch the news anymore. There& #39;s only so much daily onslaught a single soul can bear.

Maybe I& #39;ll actually try to write today. Remembering it& #39;s okay if it& #39;s all garbage. Words out on a twitter feed. Words down in a manuscript. Words, bearing witness. Words.