So instead I took the dog and the markgritter for a walk and am going to go down and read Grim Tuesday, as soon as I finish this scenelet on All the Ones We Could Not Reach, which is not at all what I thought it would be when porphyrin made it for me. It is not, for example, science fiction, or a short story, or for adults. That's a lot of things for it not to be, when you think about it; I often say my main useful talent is getting the wrong end of the stick, but that's pretty wrong, even for me.
Back a bit, this is a useful thing to remember, though: one can only do what one can do. Sometimes one can explain the one million-and-first time after explaining something one million times before. Sometimes one can't. Sometimes one can argue a point, or mop the floor, or keep one's temper, or make bread. And sometimes one can't, and it's better to go off and do something else and come around to it later, whenever later can be.
I have a friend who drives himself mad and does more or less nothing, because he can't do everything. Because the problems of the world are too big to get at all at once, and everything else feels to him like a Band-Aid on a gut wound. But it doesn't help anything for him to go around in circles with it. You just grab an end and start, and sometimes it's not the end you expected.