I like to make things. I really do. There is nothing like the exhilaration, pride, and power, of looking at something I’ve made. Clothing, short stories, drawings, dinners, analytical essays, pillows, footstools, cookies, whatever… I love to make things. To make something that is greater than the sum of its parts is a kind of primal magic, a way of working your will upon the world.

My only problem is, I don’t have time to do it all. Lately, I’ve made a baby dress, and I’ve been working on embroidering initials onto some pre-made hats for a pair of twins that is coming. Meanwhile, I haven’t made cookies in months, and I think I’ve made two pies, maximum, since we moved in November. I haven’t drawn very much for a while, and my correspondence is far below its stellar ideal. I haven’t practiced my oboe in ages, or played our piano, and I haven’t added much to my ongoing attempts at novels and short stories. I seem to be juggling, always (which is something I’m not particularly good at), and I’m always noticing something shinier on the floor than what I’m throwing about at the moment.

Is it a problem? I really don’t know. I enjoy myself, and things get made. But I’m trying, every once in a while, to step back from the new thing, and do something I haven’t done in a while. Therefore, this weekend, I am making pie. And, well, someday, I hope, I won’t have this pesky ‘wage-earning’ thing to do — and then I’ll be free to make and do with reckless abandon, and maybe, just maybe, finish a few more things.