I've been having good luck with short story writing lately. In just the last month, I've written two entirely new pieces. Each piece took less than a day to write -- that's how short they are--, despite springing out of thin air with essentially no pre-planning or outlining. The second one was just long enough and complicated enough that it took a couple extra days of careful editing and polishing to get the end right. The first one, however, was so short I was able to txt it to my sister the next morning from memory. Something that short doesn't have room for anything unnecessary.

Lately, short stories just seem to suit the shape of my free time better. I'd like to be making progress on editing my novel, but it takes a while to reacquaint myself with where I am and sink back into it. By the time I do that, Elaine's unhappy and I'm out of time.

Speaking of Elaine, my latest way of keeping her happy is to sit on the floor with my hands out -- if she puts a book in them, I read it to her. (If she puts something other a book in them, I pretend to eat it.) She'll keep me reading her board books to her in this way for ages at a time. As an example, she made me read "Little Boy Blue" eighteen times yesterday morning. And that was alternated with "Jack and Jill," "Farm Friends," and "Farm Shapes." It's charming that she loves books so much, but I am looking forward to the day when I can read something with a little more depth to her. Ideally, something that I can't read from beginning to end, eighteen times, in less than ten minutes.