Over a dozen years ago, I came down with an inner ear infection at work. At the time, I was working at a giant IBM site, and when I was struck with a sudden intense dizziness in the ladies’ bathroom, one of my colleagues called our on-site paramedics. I was terribly embarrassed by the whole thing; they started checking me for things like signs of a stroke, and I was in my early 20s. It turned out to be an inner ear thing, though, which pretty much just disturbs equilibrium and is annoying.

I’d totally forgotten about that until yesterday, when the same thing happened again. Fortunately, now I work at home, alone, with no one to ask me if I can stick out my tongue straight except the dog, and come to think of it, she doesn’t talk no matter how dizzy I get.

I took an anti-nausea med and crawled into bed with my computer. After a while I gave up and took a nap, hopeful that I would wake up feeling better. I didn’t.

Now, obviously it’s better to work at home when something like this happens, because it’s not like I could crawl into bed at an office. But on the other hand—and we’ve talked about this before—freelancers don’t actually get sick days. No work, no pay. Plus, how stupid would I feel trying to explain to a client that I didn’t get that done because I “feel dizzy?” (Hint: Really stupid.) I may as well say I have the vapors, or something.

The worst part of this particular malady is that it feels fake. I mean, I feel legitimately queasy and unsteady, but I don’t have any other symptoms. I don’t feel sick sick, just sort of seasick. But staring at a computer screen doesn’t help.

Anyway, yesterday I managed (though I did miss dog training class, which means my rotten dog may end up flunking doggie school), and today I’ll manage. But tomorrow and Thursday I have meetings and places to be. Which means I need to straighten up and stop listing to starboard, post haste.

Sometimes being a grown-up is really not all it’s cracked up to be. Hmph.

Which is why I am really struggling right now.

I am a product of public schools. I believe in public schools; not just because they’re the route I took, but because I think the principles behind them are good ones and that there are laws in place which should, theoretically, make them a viable path to success for everyone. My children attend public school. But I am currently somewhere I never expected to be: I am considering homeschooling.

I don’t want to homeschool. I don’t think I’m a particularly good teacher. It requires a time commitment I’m not sure how I’d make, and I think good teaching brings a passion to the table which I simply don’t have.

But my son is struggling and the school is, I feel, talking out of both sides of its mouth. On the one hand, they give me all of the paperwork designed to assure me that my son is entitled to help, that it is actually against the law for them to do quite a bit of what they’re doing, and that it is incumbent upon them to make things better for him. On the other hand, they’re on a budget, and what he needs is expensive. So we’ve already been told that there will be excuses as to why that’s not really what he needs, and he’ll be fine without it.

So I’m gearing up to take on the school, but I’m not stupid. There are two options here: Get what we need from the school, or homeschool. The former may require lawyers, and money, and a lot of time. Time during which things are hard for my kid. Time during which I fear for his safety, not to mention his emotional well-being. The latter option… well, it keeps him safe. And may be easier in the long run.

My preference is for accommodations at school, obviously. Because I believe in public school, and because—despite the problems he’s having—my son loves school. He loves being with his friends and he loves his teachers and he loves what they do there. I don’t want to homeschool and take that away from him.

And then down in the very bottom of good and logical reasons about what he needs from his education, as part of this decision, is the small, selfish voice that says, “What about me?”

I will do whatever my children need; that’s a given. I consider it my privilege and honor, as their mom.

But if we start homeschooling, can I really continue working full-time? Because that’s what I’m doing, right now. I work full-time or more than full-time. And can I really expect to maintain that and take full responsibility for my child’s education?

I don’t think I can. And that scares me, badly. What will it mean for our family finances? What will it mean for my clients—how would I pick and choose where to cut back? What will it mean for my career trajectory? What will it mean for my sense of self, built so heavily, now, on my work?

I am preoccupied with options, these days. If we homeschool, there are lots of great online curricula where he could do a lot of his work on the computer (while I work on mine). If we homeschool, we have a local university where I could likely find students in education who could be hired to come do tutoring sessions. If we homeschool, there are umbrella schools and enrichment programs and various other ways we can connect with others and take some of the burden off of me.

And there are people who homeschool and work; I know this. Some balance can likely be struck. I just don’t see it happening with my current workload, and so some reorganization would be imperative.

I am worried about my kid. Constantly. But if I’m being honest, I’m also worried about me. I don’t know if I can do this, except that if I have to, I will.

The terrible thing about the Internet and all of the so-called “new media” we’re enjoying as a result of it is that either there’s more theft of others’ work than there used to be or people just lack a basic understanding of what constitutes improper or illegal use of words belonging to someone else. Maybe a combination of those two things, actually.

And what this means for a lot of writers who work online is that we have to be vigilant about possible content theft. What it means for me is that I feel angry about having to spend time on stopping people from stealing my work, and it makes me very grumpy.

First, let’s talk about some handy definitions of terms when it comes to writing.

* Plagiarism is when someone tries to pass off your work as their own. It is usually a wholesale appropriation of your words with no indication that you’re the original author. If you take the content of this post and publish it on your blog with your name on it, that’s plagiarism.

* Copyright infringement is violation of the author’s copyright, meaning that some or all of the covered work is being attributed to the original source, but reproduced in a manner prohibited by law. If you take the content of this post and publish it in its entirety on your blog—even with my name on it—it’s a copyright infringement.

* Fair Use is a subset of copyright law that defines how others may legally use and refer to copyrighted works. So, for example, if you reproduce a paragraph from this post on your blog, correctly attributed to me, and linking back to this post, that would fall under Fair Use. Copyright law isn’t intended to prevent the sharing of information, but to protect the author from having her work claimed by another. Fair Use allows the spread of information as long as the source is correctly cited and the excerpted information gives the reader a way to go to the original work for more information.

Okay. Now, knowing those terms, let’s talk about scraping. Scraping is when a person or (more commonly) some sort of bot takes content from a site and reproduces it on another site. The content is nearly always stolen via RSS feed—the thing that allows you to read blogs in some sort of aggregate reader like Bloglines or Google Reader—and there are a number of ways authors can try to protect their feeds to prevent this. There are plug-ins that will append copyright notices to the bottom of every post. There are scripts that will detect when the content has been ported to a different site and will add some sort of warning like “If you are not reading this on myblog.com, this content has been stolen.” And of course there’s always the option of truncating your feed (allowing only a small piece of it to show up in a reader), but a lot of people feel that if they have to click through to read the entire post, it’s too annoying and won’t bother.

For the record, I truncate the feed on my personal sites. I know it’s annoying, and I’m sorry for folks who find it aggravating. But I was being scraped so regularly I couldn’t stand it; to me, it’s the only reasonable solution at this time.

Scraping can and does take the form of either plagiarism or copyright violation; I’ve been scraped both ways, although having a link back to my blog when my entire piece of writing has been taken is cold comfort, frankly. And to answer the question of “Why do people scrape?”, well, generally the splogs (scraped blogs) that result are littered with ads and the content-stealers are hopeful they’ll make some money. If your stolen content shows up on a splog with ads, contact the ad provider. There are strict rules about copyright adherence with every ad provider, and although it may take some time, they will respond to complaints.

Being scraped by a bot is obnoxious and annoying and takes time to deal with and isn’t any fun. Obviously. But to me, the much more aggravating situation is when a regular human with an actual site of his own takes the time to pilfer your content for his own use.

I want to believe that people are just dumb, rather than malicious. And most of the time, I really do believe that to be the case—lots of people don’t understand what constitutes Fair Use, or figure that if they like something and put it on their blog it’s okay if they don’t have many readers. (Hint: Still not okay!)

Yesterday someone took a post of mine from Want Not and reproduced the entire thing, adding at the bottom “thanks to Wantnot.net.” It wasn’t even a hyperlink. (If it was, it still would’ve been a violation of Fair Use, but it would’ve at least looked like the stealer meant well.) I’ve emailed the person in question and am awaiting a response. I tried to politely explain that she is welcome to excerpt my content and then link back to the original post, but her current usage is a clear violation of my copyright. I haven’t heard back but I choose to believe she will realize her error, apologize, and fix it.

But it’s time out of my already busy day, and aggravation, and if she ignores me or says no, then we have a problem.

Isn’t being an online author fun?

Some of the very best advice I’ve ever received on writing for a living without losing your ever-lovin’ mind has come to me by way of my dear friend Joshilyn Jackson. Joshilyn—in addition to being one of my favorite people—is a NY Times bestselling novelist, so when she talks about the writerly life and how to succeed in this business, I listen. She knows whereof she speaks, is my point. And my favorite piece of advice from her, bar none, is this admonition: Don’t be slotty.

I was reminded of this because of a recent post on her blog where she mentioned it, but really the best summation comes from this post of hers which is now several years old. She says:

You know “slotty thinking?” It’s where you feel like there is one slot, and it is morally and rightfully yours, and every time you see another writer succeed, that was possibly YOUR slot they took, so you slow burn inside with bitter embers, and it makes you do and say ugly, hurtful things, and since we are what we do, eventually you become ugly and hurtful.

[...]

There are no “slots.” There is only the best book I can write, and the work, and doing all I can for it. It lets me be happy for other people while still trying my hardest and not losing my edge and my will to succeed. When you run into SLOTTY folks (and you will, no matter what business you are in) the best thing you can do to think of them with kindness, because I have stood on the edges of that way of playing the game, and it is an awful place. No one can be happy there.

I took these words to heart years ago, and have, I think, been pretty good about conducting myself professionally in the spirit of cooperation and cheerleading my colleagues and generally appreciating what I have and experiencing genuine happiness whenever a fellow writer has met with success. I have avoided jealousy and feelings of resentment or worry that someone has somehow taken my spot in the universe, and it’s good.

Except that I’ve had a hard couple of months (for reasons largely unrelated to work), and last week I realized that I was starting to be slotty. Good news for another brought a slow burning in my chest and a bad mood that whispered that I would never have similar victory. I found myself retreating from others further than usual (which is saying something, because I tend to be a pretty solitary person), and feeling unhappy in my own skin. I started feeling like a failure.

And it wasn’t because of anything I’d done or not done. It was because of (great) things other people had done.

I was being slotty.

This week I’m getting back to basics. It started yesterday with an inventory of where my business is at, and—surprise—I felt pretty good about myself upon doing so. I’m on track to earn at least as much this year as I did last, even with the recession and various contracts that I’ve lost due to cutbacks. There are things I’ve written and jobs I’ve handled this year of which I’m very proud. I’m doing fine, in other words. Last night I slept better than I have in a long time.

Are there things I still want to achieve that I haven’t managed yet? Absolutely. Does it have anything to do with anyone else? Nope. Am I accomplishing anything by accommodating ugly thoughts while I wait? Good lord, no.

So I’ve learned that 1) I’m human and 2) being slotty is not only useless and ugly, it just plain doesn’t feel good.

My slot—which really isn’t a slot at all—is out there, and I’m the only one who can fill it. Here’s to not tripping and falling into any other slotholes, in the meantime.

This is not because I’m so popular. It’s because some people are just email-happy. I mean, I’m not even counting the stuff that lands in my Spam filter (on the order of 300+ messages per day, in case you’re wondering), but I do get plenty of “let me tell you about our great new product” or “have you checked out this new site yet” sorts of emails. Also, I appear to be permanently stuck on a mailing list for press events in New York City, try as I may to get myself removed. But that’s another topic entirely.

No, the point I want to make today is that there is a right way and a wrong way to approach someone when you’re hoping they’ll respond to you with some advice. And I always thought this stuff was common sense, but given the number of emails I receive which seem to overlook some basic principles, I figured it was time to share.

Look; I am not joking even a little bit when I tell you that I love it when someone feels moved to mail me for advice on writing. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside; it tells me that you like what I do and you think I have knowledge to share. That’s all good. On the other hand, I do sometimes get weird and/or crazy stuff from people that result in my feeling… ummm… shall we say, less than helpful.

Generally speaking, if you are approaching someone for advice, there are some basic tenets to keep in mind.

1) Compliments are good, but blatant sucking up is not. I assume you’re emailing me because you like me. If you feel moved to say so, well, so much the better. Emails which are lengthy treatises on why you think I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread can be taken one of two ways: either you’re being insincere, or you’re sincere but a little nuts. If you’re mailing me for advice and I’ve mentally categorized you as a little bit nuts, chances are excellent that I’m not going to answer any of your “advice” questions, but send you a bland and generic, “Thanks so much for your kind words,” type of reply.

2) Acknowledgment that you’re asking for a favor goes a long way. Look, I’m working for a living, same as everyone else. I don’t get paid to answer emails. (Now there’s a dream job….) I am more than happy to help people out when I can, because others have done it for me and I’m all for paying it forward and good karma and all of that. A very simple, “I know you must be very busy…” can go a long way in terms of making me feel like you’re a good egg. It hasn’t happened very often, but occasionally I’ve received emails that felt like they were lists of demands, with no appreciation for the fact that asking a relative stranger to take time out of her day for you is not something a person should just expect.

3) Brevity is good. If your email to me is 200 paragraphs long, I barely have time to read the whole thing, much less respond to it. Again, you’re asking someone to make time for you. Honor that reality by keeping it brief. The corollary to this one is…

4) Oversharing is bad. Because I often write about personal matters on my personal blog, people sometimes feel compelled to share their life stories with me, as well—particularly if we have a key event in common (messy divorce, for example). There’s sharing, and then there’s oversharing. It’s probably never appropriate to email a stranger the intimate details of your life in excruciating detail. Honestly, it makes me uncomfortable when people do it me. Saying, “I also went through a difficult divorce,” is fine. Saying, “It all started back in 2005…” and treating me to the entire history is unnecessary and a little weird. (That said, sometimes a connection happens and there will be a string of email conversation back and forth, at which point the rules change, obviously. This applies to an initial email to someone who doesn’t know you.)

5) Specific questions are easier to answer than general ones. I get a lot of people wanting to know how I got started, how I proceeded, how I find work, what steps to take, etc. This is information I’m happy to share when I can. But saying, “Wow you’re doing what I want to do, tell me how,” isn’t really an answerable question. It’s too broad, and assumes some magical formula which I’m sorry to say doesn’t exist. Good: “What are some things I can do to build traffic on my blog?” Bad: “So how do I make my blog like yours?” (Related: Don’t make your blog like mine. Make it like yours.)

6) Money is a delicate subject. Emily Post and other etiquette gurus all agree that discussing money is a tricky matter, and one that is not to be undertaken casually. Do not mail me to ask how much money I make, even how much money I charge (unless you’re offering me a job). It is okay to ask me questions about how to figure out what to charge or how to research going rates, but it’s rude to ask me what I earn. You wouldn’t do it face to face (would you?), so it’s not okay to do in email, either.

7) Say thank you. I really, really wish this was self-evident, but apparently it’s not, so I’m going to say it. If I had a nickel for every time that I actually took the time out of my day to write out a considered, hopefully helpful response to a stranger’s email and then never received an acknowledgment, I’d be going to Starbucks on a regular basis. Now, it’s bad form not to thank someone for their time, anyway, but occasionally one of those people whom I helped never says thanks and then they come back to me later on with something else. Guess what! If you didn’t say thank you the first time, do you think you’re going to get a second response from me? (Hint: Manners are good.)

Really, I think all seven of the preceding points can be boiled down, thusly: Treat people the way you’d like to be treated. The end.

I think that no matter your profession—whether you work out of the home, from home, or not at all—it is in the nature of child-raising that just when you’ve pretty much gotten things figured out, something changes. Grooves were meant to be interrupted, and children have a way of transforming weekly or even daily. So although it’s true that just about everyone runs into work/life balance issue, I think as parents we’re much more prone to “chasing a shifting target” sorts of issues.

I know I am, anyway.

My kids have been back to school now for two months. We should have a routine down. And we do… sort of. The thing is that as they change and grow, their wants and needs change. Obviously. And where my son used to be able to go off and do his homework with minimal supervision, the work load has changed and now he needs more help. Where my daughter used to be shy and reluctant to join extracurriculars, she’s now breaking out of her shell and wanting to get involved in more things. They need more time; more of my time focused on them (that never changes, so far as I can tell), sure, but also more time to do the things they want or need to that don’t directly involve me.

But of course I’m involved pretty much no matter what; I’m the cook, the taxi, the master scheduler. I’m the one who has to keep track of it all and say, “Look, you have to start making choices. You can’t do all of these activities. Let’s get out the calendar and see what will work.”

Sometimes the kids (my daughter the newly-hatched social butterfly, in particular) will get angry with me because I say no. I feel like I say no a lot. I know they think I do. But there’s only so many hours in a day, only so many places we can get to without freezing time, and only so many directions we can be pulled in before we feel pulled apart.

“When am I going to get into a groove for this year?” I lamented to a friend, the other day, as we compared notes on how school is going so far.

“Probably right before summer vacation,” she quipped.

I have to stop looking for the groove, because all it does is lull me into a false sense of security and routine. I have to just keep trying to make the best decisions for our family, day by day, and cross my fingers.

Well, that, and I occasionally have to let the kids spend a day in their jammies doing nothing. The not-so-secret bit is that I needed that day just as much (maybe more) as they did.

I’ve written here how many times about setting rates and valuing your work? About how your time is valuable and you deserve to be paid well for it? And I do think that most freelancers who cannot make a living struggle not necessarily because their work is poor, but because they have difficulty valuing their time appropriately. It’s an issue about which I’m really passionate, quite frankly.

And yet, last week I engaged the services of another freelancer and then blanched at the cost. Not because the cost wasn’t fair, mind you, but just because I was feeling overwhelmed. And she offered to let me pay less, and so I did. And then I felt extremely crappy about it.

We’ve been working with a terrific dog trainer. In fact, if she were to bill me for all of the emails and phone calls we’ve exchanged as my family journeyed through the dog selection process, I’d probably have to declare bankruptcy. And she did a little private training session with us once Licorice came home, and it ended up being two hours, and so the cost was commensurate with the time spent.

“I know you’ve had a lot of start-up costs, here,” she said, seeing the look on my face. “Getting the dog, and buying the expensive food for her,” (Licorice has skin problems, so she is now on premium dog food that costs more than the food we eat) “and the shots and medicine and vet visit and everything. I understand it’s been expensive. If you want to pay less, that’s fine.”

I hesitated. I wanted to pay less, yes. But what was fair? I mean, fair was her regular rate. Or possibly even more, given all the assistance she’s given us for absolutely no charge. After a bit of back and forth (she wanted me to pick a number, and I had a really hard time with that), I ended up paying her half her regular rate. And immediately signing up for a regular training class (at the regular rate), too, but still.

Would I have done work for someone for half my regular rate? Just because I knew they had a lot of expenses? I don’t know that I necessarily would.

Plus this is someone who has really gone out of her way for us, not to mention that I just plain like her. The more I thought about it, the crummier I felt. Was it worth it, the money I saved?

Fortunately, a solution may have presented itself that soothes both my wallet and my conscience. It turns out that the trainer is working on a book. A book that will need copyediting. Her services for my services; money saved, all around, and a great exchange of expertise to benefit everyone.

So I think it’ll be a happy ending, after all. Thank goodness. Viva la barter!

(It’s okay if you just started cooing at the screen and talking to that little face in babytalk. I do it to her all the time.)

You would think—after all the time it took for us to get to this point—that I would’ve realized exactly what I was getting myself into with a new pet. And I did. Mostly. But even though Licorice is three, the fact that she’s new to our home and a relatively recent rescue means that in many ways, she’s a puppy. And having a puppy is not all that different from having a baby, it turns out.

So let’s check in on how my typical day has changed.

Typical before-the-kids-leave morning before the dog: I get up, I make coffee, I check email. I do a little work, then I make breakfasts and pack lunches and get the kids off to school.

Typical before-the-kids-leave morning after the dog: I get up (earlier), I make coffee, I take the dog outside. I check email. I tell the dog to get down. I do a little work. I tell the dog to get down. I make breakfasts and pack lunches and listen to the (tethered, so that I can accomplish this) dog whine for a bit, then I feed her and take her with us on the walk to school, which means what used to be a pleasant 20-minute walk has turned into a training session. But at least I get to stop and bag up dog poop, too. Ha.

Typical after-the-kids-leave morning before the dog: I sit down and work until lunch.

Typical after-the-kids-leave morning after the dog: I sit down and do some work. Then I take a break and we do a few training exercises. I work some more. We go outside. The dog takes a nap and I work.

Typical afternoon before the dog: I work all afternoon until the kids get home.

Typical afternoon after the dog: Well, so far she sleeps, so maybe I take her out once, but I still get to work for most of it.

The biggest change for me, actually, is that my kids are old enough that I can usually get in another hour (maybe even two) of work after they get home; they get a snack, do their homework, practice piano, etc. But because the dog is little and my son is… uhhh… exuberant (and easily distracted)… now I have to police the afternoon situation much more carefully. “Get off the dog,” is becoming an oft-repeated phrase around here. (”We were playing!” is the typical retort, in case you were wondering.)

We will all settle in, but at the moment I feel a little off my game.

Of course, then I look at that face and rub her little head and don’t mind in the slightest.

Hey, we work hard. We both work full time and also try to be as present as possible for the kids and make sure that the house stays relatively clean and that we have home-cooked meals to eat. We get up at 6:00 and by the time the kids are in bed at 8:30ish, all we want to do is sit on the couch for a little while before we head to bed, ourselves.

This is the area where my life is most out of balance. I’ve known it for years. Can I finally change, now?

I have two close friends who are fitness freaks. It’s been a running joke for years, between us, this distaste for exercise of mine. Both of them don’t just work out, they claim to enjoy it. There have been periods of time in my life where I worked out regularly. But I never enjoyed it. Never. I never had a day when I said “Oh, I totally need to [go to aerobics/do some yoga/run a few laps/go hit the weights].” I did it, but I never liked it. My two friends who exercise regularly and love it assure me that if only I got into a routine, I would get to where I don’t just like it, I crave it.

Because I am mature and thoughtful, my response to this is usually something along the lines of, “You are a lying liar who sits upon a throne of lies. This ‘endorphin junkie’ mindset you’re always talking about, that’s imaginary. It’s not nice to lie to your friends.”

Listen, I went to college for theater. My first year, the required curriculum included something called Core, which was an intensive cluster of classes essentially intended to weed out the people who Weren’t Serious. Five mornings a week we were required to show up at o’dark thirty for an hour of fitness that included aerobics and dance. I was 18, young and energetic, and I hated that class with every fiber of my being. I showed up every day because I had to, and I got through it, but I never once looked forward to it or missed it on the weekend.

Nowadays I am old and unfit and lazy, so the notion that I will learn to love exercise seems downright ludicrous to me.

Nevertheless, I’m not being healthy right now. I spend most of my day at a desk. I need to find a fitness routine I can, if not love, at least stick to. While smaller thighs would be lovely, it’s more a matter of making sure I don’t shorten my lifespan because I couldn’t be bothered to get up off my butt and do something.

Aside from not enjoying exercise, I also always feel like I don’t have time. But wasn’t part of the whole working-at-home thing supposed to be the joy of setting my own schedule…? I think it was. And I think there must be a way to find 30 minutes each day to change my routine and start taking better care of myself. I just have to commit to doing it.

Wish me luck.

Okay, maybe it’s a lousy metaphor.

Except that it’s not, because I’ve always said that one of the biggest perks of working from home is that I’m free to be really involved in my kids’ activities and to pitch in where I’m needed. When we moved to Georgia two years ago I dove in head-first: PTA, other parent committees, classroom volunteer, event staff for various school functions, etc. I was happy to be able to do it.

Until I started resenting it all.

By the time school finished up last Spring, I felt pulled in a million different directions. Moreso than usual, even. I’d served on a special committee that routinely had marathon-length meetings at the most inconvenient times, and despite our supposed task-force status, we’d not accomplished nearly as much as we’d hoped. I’d given my all to the elementary school my kids had been at for the past two years, and rezoning in our district meant that we were now assigned to (yet another) new school. I’d spent many a night doing bookkeeping or cleaning up after events, and I was just plain tired.

“I’m taking next year off!” I announced to my family, when Summer rolled around. They all looked at me like I’d lost my marbles. “No special committees. No officer position with the PTA. No running events. Next year I’m relaxing for a bit.” No one argued. My husband seemed pleased, actually. This is the first year the kids are in two different schools; he offered to take over attending PTA meetings for one of their schools, even, leaving me with the school where the PTA only meets four times a year. Easy.

School started and sure, yes, a little trickle of guilt may have found its way into my consciousness. Whatever. Paperwork came home for the first fundraiser and I gleefully checked the opt-out box and sent in a donation, instead. Easy! But then it turned out that one of my friends was running the event. And they needed some people to help a few days a week at the school, keeping things organized, and could I just come in for half an hour…?

Down the slippery slope I went. The first shift turned into two, and last night if you’d peeked into my living room you would’ve seen me sitting there with my friend, surrounded by envelopes, checking off students and counting money. Because I want to help.

This morning I ran into one of my son’s teachers and idle conversation led to discussion of their current unit in class, all about storytelling, and before I knew it was reminding her that I’m a writer and volunteering to come in and do a workshop with the kids, if she’d like, because I’m happy to volunteer.

So much for my year off. Eh, I can stop any time I want to. No, really. Stop looking at me like that.