I’m giving myself permission write whatever, whenever. Sometimes I think expectations slow me down. Worrying too much what is and isn’t good enough, perfect, right. Those are high expectations in writing, particularly when the process of writing itself is built upon the premise of it being a process. Not everything is gold. Not everything is genius.

First drafts are works in progress. The final product is after much toil and labor. The good work entails flushing out the not so good work. The flushing needs to happen more often.

I’m home. I’m back at work. My head is cloudy, still, from the deep south. Swimming in memories and humidity of nothing to do, far away from life.

But I’m back. Physically I’m back. But I left my head in New Orleans.