Except it’s not — Wednesday, that is. I woke up determined to make today a better writing day. The last couple have been dragging, as if every word is heavy. I’m ready for a rolling day instead, the kind where the words just pour out and flood the page, and even if later half of them are no good, the pouring out is fun. So while I walked the dog I gave myself a little pep talk, all of which revolved around the fact that it’s Wednesday and Wednesday is a good day, the middle point of the week, the best day to be productive and get a lot done, la-di-da. And then when I sat down to write, it turned out to be Thursday. I need a new pep talk.

Last night everyone came over for dinner. We had hamburgers and fruit salad, nothing fancy, and we ate inside, at the dining room table, because the weather was ugly and thunderstorm-y. It would have been Mom and Dad’s 48th anniversary. Rory said later that it had been a really nice dinner, and I think it was, but I can’t remember a single thing we talked about.