(Until about 20 minutes ago, I had never heard the original version of this song. I imagined it was by a Fleetwood Mac-like band, not the star of Popstars: the Rivals.)

I emailed the second official, and 11th unofficial, draft of my new story around to friends on Saturday, and since then, I’ve been spending my mornings cleaning, reading, and managing the email list for Making the Mountain. I’ve been productive, but I still feel pretty empty. It’s not like I think my writing is so great or could change any lives. It’s just that writing, for me anyway, is the only thing that makes life seem more than a variation of waiting on lines, looking for misplaced keys, and cleaning the bathroom mirror. This sounds self-important and melodramatic, but if I’m not writing, I don’t really know what this whole thing is about.

At the same time, work, which pays for whatever I’m waiting on line to purchase, all of the things my various keys open, and the cleaning solution for the bathroom mirror—along with summer fruit, weekend trips, and novelty yarmulkes—has been asking more of me, which is only fair, because it is my job.

This week, I’ve been fighting for my love, which means insisting on a schedule that gives me time to write, even if I don’t have anything to write right now.

When I was writing my novel, I thought I’d rather fail at it than not try, which is still true. My novel only exists in a drawer and my collection of short stories might have a similar fate. I’ve sent around five of stories, and all I have to show for it is a spreadsheet of rejection and one memento of kindness. There’s no guarantee that I’ll get anything published. The only thing that’s for sure is that my writing won’t get better if I don’t write, and that’s worth fighting for.