Stacking firewood is challenging. I look for the right piece, the right shape, so that the whole stack is locked in tight. I get offended by the wood when I can’t make the pieces fit.

I’ll add a few pieces, then pause and stand back, studying the pile. I’ll see one that could be turned a different direction. Or one that would lock in better if placed elsewhere. I’ll swap direction, turning a piece on its end so the fatter part balances the whole.

Then I’ll go back to the pile and rummage, looking for a piece that’s the right angle, the right shape.

In the winter, when snow is heavy, I’ll haul in pieces that I stacked in the hot summer sun. I’ll see smoke coming from the chimney and know the stack came out okay in spite of my doubt that all the pieces don’t fit just right.

Editing is challenging. I look for the right word, the right sound, so that the whole paragraph is locked in tight. I get offended by the story when I can’t make the words fit.

I’ll add a few words, then pause and stand back, studying the paragraph. I’ll see a phrase that could be turned a different direction. Or one that would lock in better if placed elsewhere. I’ll swap direction, turning a sentence on its end so the beginning balances the whole. Then I’ll go back to the story and daydream, looking for a theme that’s the right angle, the right shape.

In the winter, when snow is heavy, I’ll read the book that I worked on in the hot summer sun. I’ll see words and know the story came out okay in spite of my doubt that all the words don’t fit just right.

And so goes this hot sunny day. Stacking firewood and sweating and daydreaming, and then cooling off in the shade with words.