I, and only I, would return home after 100 days of production, after 5 months of running her first writers room, after the overseeing of writing and writing of 8 hours of television, and expect to have ANYTHING resembling a critical thought. Sarah Ruhl, a playwright and mother who I worship, wrote a gorgeous book called 100 essays I don’t have to write and so can I, but even less, just fragments. Her children are older, so she gets to finish sentences. A play called What doesn’t Kill you about the Asheville Floods. A musical about the Camp Mystic girls, told by the ones who are still missing. A book about when Joe told me yesterday that he told his whole class that I was going to be his wife, and I explained to him that I can’t be his wife, and it really made him sad, and that’s the book. A sandwich with pickles and only that. A hair on my pillow. Bobbie’s jagged toenail. A pause. A sip. A nap.