This is one graphic that has been added to the wall, which is nearly completed. I call it “optimistic woman,” and explained to Everett that although she is walking in a raincloud, she is looking up to the sun with a smile on her face. He said, “Oh. I thought she was a giant.”

Upon closer perusal, I had to agree. An optimistic giant she is, then.

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It’s St. Patrick’s Day, and my boys were sure to wear green this morning.

“Otherwise, you get pinched!” Everett told Emil, waiting for his load of wash to come out of the dryer.

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In other news, Life of Pi author Yann Martel has fallen in love with Saskatchewan. He likes the province just about as much as I do, by the sound of it. He has noticed how Saskatchewan skies make you “look up,” and that dry cold is something you can dress for, and that infinite prairie is not the only beauty here.

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Recycling containers are overflowing. We are almost out of drinking water. I need fiction. I must go to town.

An old picture of my ugly sisters and me, for posting which they will kill me. But it’s a chance I’m willing to take because I have been dawdling all day and have nothing of any value whatsoever to say.

I doubt even these few words are worth posting. What I do know is that if I look at my journal entries with that sort of eye all the time, I’ll edit it right out of existence.

I am a letter writer. I am not a fiction writer, an essayist, a researcher. I write letters. It’s what I do.

The Letter Writer. It should be the name of my book. If I wrote one.