In the complete draft of my book manuscript, there are 69,226 words. For the past two weeks, since I sent the draft off to my editor, I haven't been able to find any more. I think of writing sometimes, when the girls are playing peacefully for a moment, when I collapse on my bed during their afternoon rest time, and I start crafting sentences in my brain. Mostly though, my creativity is drained. I read - Tim Keller's book on suffering, Andrew Solomon's exploration of children different from their parents. I think a lot about pain and loss and God and the unanswerable questions. I sleep. I watch TV. I sort through the mail that's been piling up since December. And I wait for the editor's feedback and for my words to come back. This is part of the process I know, this percolation, this steeping, this silence.