What with the impending war, and my horrific financial situation, and the ghastly visit with my mother compounded by the ghastly letter she sent to me...what with all of that, and my recent divorce, and my kids who are alternately fantastic and maddening, with my yard full of dandelions and the bill collectors beating down the door and this feeling of never, ever, ever being able to get it all done, to do it all right, to live like a normal person. And yet here I am still, walking and talking, applying for jobs, taking my kids to school, serving up green beans and pork chops and rice. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to keep it up. Honestly. All of this makes it hard to write, or even to think about writing, even though writing is probably the best thing for me.