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'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'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't enough.

I've been "praying" for him -- my version of wishing and breathing love and light. These times are so strange. There's nowhere to put the pain and the overwhelm. Only the gratitude, resilience, and ability to keep going. I don't know, some mornings, what to do with it all.

I've sold a book in the middle of it, but I haven't written. I haven't touched writing since the first weeks so long ago. I've been sick myself for much of it, with I don't know what. I don't watch the news anymore. There's only so much daily onslaught a single soul can bear.

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