My son has a new hideout. Under the table in his playroom he has a cardboard box just the right size for a two year old to snuggle up in. One of my daughters even cut him a door that opens and closes for it. So if he gets quiet, there’s a good chance he is hanging out in his box.
I have been in a relatively happy place myself for the past few days. I have had an indecent amount of depression, so depression-free happiness is not what I am talking about. But creative happiness has been abundant as I delve into the book I am working on. I really become myself when I am writing. I don’t know why I shut myself off from it so often. Well, yes, of course I know: self-doubt. And while I can’t predict when that awful hate for every word I write will kick in again, I am going to enjoy the peace before it. This nice, calm breathing in, breathing out of ideas becoming actions on paper.