…she’s undertaken the whole formatting/prep job for Closed Circle, which has gotten so arcane I don’t remotely understand half of it, she’s working late hours trying to get it all done, do the graphics, covers, tweak the covers so they display right; and every correction some e-mail reports sends her back through half a dozen different versions, all of which take hours to do, and she’s not sleeping. Far, far worse, these problems are driving her writing concentration right out of her head. A writer is a partly insane and delicate creature, who needs not to be totally in the real world, and she’s lying awake of nights, getting up at 3 am to apply some solution, do just a bit more work—but not the creative kind she needs to do: she’s undertaken most of the housework and done every repair job around the house to try to get it done without calling a repairman, the front yard’s a mess, and she’s exhausted. Yesterday we moved about 3 car-loads (much as our springs would stand) of rock we found on the cheap, and she placed that, to try to define paths in our landscaping, we’re ordering more, the pond needs to be drained and refilled and treated, and the bathroom still has a hole in it, the cardboard that needs thrown out is in a mass in the kitchen, and Jane keeps trying to save MY writing time by doing everything so I don’t get in the mess she’s in. Which is not damned fair. So I’m going to take a break and go tend the pond, move some rock and poison some weeds and I’m taking over the housework entirely. It’s depressing, the state the place has gotten into, and neither of us needs that. So I’m going to start moving rocks, and doing all I can to get Jane some writing time and some leisure to get her concentration back—of all things a writer can’t take, it’s being cut off from writing. And it just ain’t right.