For the past three days I have been talking of nothing but words. Words, and writing them, and sifting through them to glean meaning and doing the work and not doing the work and carving the space and finding the time. I writing this in bed, on my phone, beneath a tangle of sheet and blanket, the baby spatchcocked against my torso, wet mouth wide open. Today is the mid-week break in teaching.

I am newly conscious of writing a newsletter; I’ve been hosting workshops about writing online, and now feel I’ve positioned myself as some kind of expert. I stood up in front of 30 people and read a newsletter post I only ever intended to live in people’s inboxes, and tried not to cry and or vomit while doing so (I managed, just). I hope that our writers are not checking their emails, but if they are, perhaps they will find this. Perhaps they will think: “who’s she to know?”

This isn’t a usual Wednesday post, I suppose. Last night I explained that this is possibly the most physically and mentally drained I’ve felt since having the baby nearly seven months ago. Through a combination of where we host A Haven For Stories - a 15th century villa on the borders of Umbria and Tuscany, but also a house that has played host to intentional community for 30 years - and the people who come and give their time and vulnerability to us, it has become an open-hearted place. The conversations over the four-course dinners get deep, fast. For reasons I can’t explain people tend to cry in my workshops and tutorials. The other night someone said this was because they tend to leave people unstuck, in a good way.

All of which is to say that today’s letter is a shorter post, a kind of sign upon a door: “back soon. Take good care.”