Last night was 23-days since my Grandmother died. Time keeps crunching along. I finally picked up a novel again. Inkheart. (I first read it a few months ago.)  And it felt like chicken soup.

Should that be embarrassing?

It was familiar, it whet my appetite and satisfied it too. A completely different “flavor” than the first time I read it. I wasn’t too impressed with the beginning chapters before, but they had the context of the whole story this time, and I was able to appreciate the author’s efforts to give them more meaning.

Tried a little too hard, maybe, but it was okay this time.

For the first time in more than 3 weeks I thought I might return to my own work.
Three weeks is a long time to wonder what you’ll do next.