Time is the issue. Not enough of it, as usual, and—always assuming one doesn’t get hit by a bus or by some other metaphor—there aren’t that many variables to manipulate in order to find more.
To put it another way, even when activities have been pared down to the most essential, important, and compelling, there’s still a hierarchy within those categories. And sometimes it takes a little experimentation to figure out what the hierarchy actually is.
The experimentation is over, and The Book Under Her Bed is now going to take a long nap while I concentrate on fiction. That’s the whole story, and I count myself lucky to have figured it out even at this late date.
But a nap, remember, is just a nap. During the next few months TBUHB is likely to blink and stretch, yawn and wake for the odd week or two; new posts are entirely possible. Whether there will be readers or not is my lookout; I hope there will be. As I hope there will be when TBUHB returns in earnest after a season or two.
Thank you for reading TBUHB for all these nearly nine months. I wish you well—the very best—in sorting out your own immediate priorities.