I’m sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by packing tape, cardboard, and a giant felt-tip marker. A lingering boycott has led readers to ask if they can buy directly from me. I’m not exactly equipped for this change of plans, but thankfully, Jackie had a stack of large manila envelopes—so now I’m back in business!

Outside my window, a light rain comes and goes, slowly filling our pond to the brim. It’s a good thing the two faux koi living there are oblivious—otherwise, they might be clutching the rocks below, bracing for the overflow.

Our doves drink from the saucers beneath the terracotta pots, reminding me to take a sip from my own cup, rather than relying solely on tea and coffee. Ricci is curled up on the couch, waiting patiently for dinner.

I might enjoy the scent of the garden if the window were cracked, but instead, I hold my breath while addressing envelopes. I don’t want to get lightheaded from the industrial-strength ink. Then again, maybe I should inhale it and hope it calms me after a dizzying book launch that has left me mailing out my magnum opus one envelope at a time. It feels like a few giant steps backward, but qui sait—maybe the old-fashioned way is the way forward.

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For more online reading: The Lost Gardens: A Story of Two Vineyards and a Sobriety