Most days I find glass during my walk on the beach, but I always find agates. Rarely I will pick up a feather. I lean down slowly, sliding my hand down my thigh, and even so my head throbs when I pluck a treasure from the sand.

Ten days ago I suffered a concussion in a fall that threw me hard on my back. Two days ago I sat on the edge of a too-soft chair, leaning forward while I played Scrabble with a friend for an hour. That has my back acting up.My head hurts when I wake. I drink plenty of water. Today I will try to stay off my feet and off the computer, but here I am typing.

Sometimes you just do what you want, what you might even pretend you must do. I could be knitting now or winding a warp. I could be watching television or reading. There are other satisfying, creative outlets. None of them reward me as writing does.

I have completed many stories, I could not even guess how many. Novels, and collections of writings, children’s stories and a novel probably suitable as YA, craft essays and creative nonfiction. Poems.

On the other hand. (She had warts.)

On the other hand, writing troubles me. Writing takes longer than anything else I do, longer than baking, knitting, piecing a quilt top, planning, teaching, a long walk on the beach. Reading a book. It is less certain. There is no absolute I-am-done point with writing. There is no clear reward, in most cases there is no reward at all. Few people ever see my knitting, weaving, and few eat my baking. Fewer read my words.

The novel that I have been sending out since last winter has been rejected 68 times. So far. Is that enough? Am I done? May I set this writing aside and move on? Should I?

But still, it is the words I want.