I got a little over four hours of sleep last night. Now my kids are in bed and I should really go to bed. Not sure why I’m not.

I’ve been pretty burnt out since returning from Drumheller. Too much time not-alone. I long ago theorized that whenever I feel slightly insane, I just need more time to myself. Then I got married and had children. Time alone is not the same when you get it only with someone else’s indulgence. And then there is that I go out to dance twice a week, for three or four hours. I feel I should spend the remaining nights with my family. You can only have so many priorities, ya know? Sometimes sanity isn’t one of them.

Speaking of priorities, I have been really clearly not writing a novel lately. I have been, rather, ignoring that novel like it’s a temperamental child sulking in the corner. No, well, I suppose that, realistically, a writer cannot consider herself to only be productive when actually stringing words together. I have been planning my novel. I actually, really have. I have given up on self-indulgent introspective journalling in favour of novel-related journalling. And I have been doing a little research. I have not abandoned my novel to the streets. I am only, as I said, refusing to indulge it in its sulks.

Anyhow, during the course of writing this brief and pointless piece I have downloaded an Oum Kalthoum tribute album, calmed a wakeful, crying, sick baby, updated myself on what the internet has to say re: patriarchy, class politics and food and now I have run out of steam and am going to go to bed.