I had my father, the new sender of daily selfies, on the phone yesterday. “How’s your writing going?” he asked. He asks often now. It still makes me smile. The answer to his question has the opposite effect.
“You haven’t been able to shake anything loose yet, huh?”
I shake my head but he’s on the phone and he can’t see me. The kettle boils, I pour water over the tea bag in my favorite red mug. “Not yet,” I say eventually.
Later, I write in my journal about how guilty I feel that I’m not writing. I watch a show about a young doe-eyed woman who has just lost her husband. I look over at the laptop sitting closed on the floor next to the bedside table, and then I read a book about a Jewish man who’s in trouble.