Today I tripped in my wooden clogs and fell down the flight of stairs in my apartment. I wasn't broken but badly bruised. After four days of thinking of myself as a "serious writer," I noticed all of the other things that were undone. The laundry was out of control (I was descending the stairs to retrieve it). Nothing had been cooked for awhile. Everyday one of my kids asked when she could bring her teacher those dry erase markers I was supposed to pick up at Staples. ("Oh, sorry! I've been so busy writing!" I would stammer, feeling a bit foolish.) I start teaching on Monday so I was treating this week as a "fantasy writer's camp" with multiple cafe visits and submission goals. It felt great to put that first for once, instead of thinking of myself as a writer only when everything else is taken care of. (Thanks, Lara, for discussing this earlier today with me.) So after sending off the story I'd been working on all week to a friend for perusal, I began revising another story, after slathering my bruises with arnica gel first, of course.
Tights: Then, since it was a balmy day, I pulled on my red tights and went to the Farmer's Market at Union Square to gather food for the family: kale, carrots, scallions, and pears. What should I make?