I’m working hard. It’s going well (I think). But it’s also lonely. I think, for me, the summer always comes with a certain melancholy. The weather is good. There’s a feeling like every moment should be spent outside, enjoying the light and the breeze. But writing does not take place outside. It takes place inside, behind desks. And when I’m really, really writing intensively I feel even more keenly the sensation that I am missing out on life. I hate getting invited to things I can’t attend. Or going weeks without seeing friends. I hate making these kinds of choices. It is not fun. Of course, it’s also something that everyone does all the time, so I’m not complaining. Stuff takes time. You have to choose. Eventually my writing life will ease up, and I will emerge and I will see everyone, and then I’ll spend the next nine months bemoaning the fact that I’m not in the zone and not writing intensively. There’s really no way to win.