Well, kids, I’m tired, I’m brain dead after a day of writing and I’ve had too much wine (I blame Liz for that, although I poured it myself, but she could’ve stopped me.)  That’s me in my “writing sweater”–a very tattered sweater that once belonged to my sister Kate, who left us way too soon. I wear to write because it’s magic–words come when I have it on. I think they come in through the holes… I could be wrong about that, but I don’t think I am. It was a day of all writing all the time. We...