Writers are delicate creatures. We live on imagination of the worst possible outcome, and we spot clues to moods in others with the zeal of a confirmed paranoiac. When things are going really well, we hear voices.

When the noise of life or general stress drowns out the voices, we are not healthy or happy creatures.

I can report I am now back on track and have recovered the threads, and have faced the day with renewed happiness.

Moving those 3 damned rock piles out front has helped.