Dear Diary,

I am in between. This is perpetual. Why do I need to keep discovering it as if it were brand new?

The dishes will never be done: I will turn around only to discover someone eating another bowl of granola with pearsauce. Today's batch of bread will get eaten before the week's out--all four loaves. And the cookies. And the yogurt, and anything else that I make. We will run out of canned tomatoes, perhaps before spring.

I will sign a book contract. It will feel provisional rather than triumphant. I will remember all the steps yet to be completed. (Like the manuscript.) It will remind me that Hair Hat never felt quite done either, even after I saw it in print.

My children will grow, but I won't be done with them.
I will fill pages, but I won't be done with words.
I will get up at 5:40am to run. But I won't be done running.

None of this is discouraging; or, it shouldn't be. To be in between is to be alive.

I am in between.
And I need my bed, just now.

Yours, Carrie