So when I read through my drafts that have never been finished or posted, they are full of thoughts I've been thinking, ideas I'm processing, questions I'm asking. Mostly questions. And you, dear people, never get to hear those questions. Perhaps they are your questions too. Perhaps they are just mine and I don't want to expose my folly. This is why I do not publish. So much for really believing that there are no stupid questions, that the process and effort is growth.

Two of my favourite sounds:

-someone giggling or laughing out loud over the book they're engrossed in

-the sound of shears cutting fabric laid out on a table or the floor