Sometimes, you must write in the thin little spaces between all the other moments. You put the writing into the nooks and crannies of the day. That’s how a book gets written when life runs parallel to it. You chop veggies. You pet the neighbor’s dog. You fold a load of laundry. You drive across town. You think all the thoughts you have to think and don’t always want to, about justice and gun laws and immigration and how to love better. You make dinner. You run everybody’s errands.
You stand in your own front yard to take a breath. And you write right there in the place where everything’s happening.
That’s the only way sometimes.