It's Quiet ...

But not too quiet.

I've been enjoying an evening home alone.  Considering the amount of time I have to myself, and how respectful the kids are of my space, it amazes me that this should feel special.  It does, though, in that 'only have to do my own dishes and laundry,' 'don't have to make dinner for anyone but myself' kind of way.  Any mess made is a mess I made myself, and any mess cleaned up stays cleaned up.

Ahhh, bliss.

There are many kinds of bliss, so I don't feel a need to cling to this.  I do appreciate it, though.

In other news, I got a heap of writing done.  As much as writing on novels feels rewarding, writing on short stories and non-fiction feels more sane at the moment.  Is it the sense of quick response?  I don't know.  The novels are not abandoned, but they are resting for the next little bit, possibly until after Ireland (though just typing that fills me with anxiety.  No working on novels until mid-May?!!  Really?!!)  I've also got a heap of reading done.  Lots more to do for the master's class and the literary award I read for, but I see lights at the end of the tunnel, and I hear a strange, uplifting music that summons me closer ... 

Cave sirens.  Such a menace.