You wake on time. Dark outside. You do your stretches, almost Zen-like, and settle to work: radiation dose history. By breakfast, daylight outside, peace has a hold, and the rain-drenched walk to Bar Ristretto is productive mental labour. You work well. After lunch, another big year, the fitness one, takes your time but you don’t begrudge it. You work. You cook a tofu dish for dinner. Out socialising (no red). To sleep weary but focused.
This is what a Writing Big Year looks like: a lit workroom beckoning.