Any idea that comes to me seems trivial and boring. Why can’t I come up with a single original idea? And who would want to read what I write anyway? I stare across the table at my eldest daughter, to whom ideas come easily.
And now it is summer. My children have been compiling their lists for various reading clubs, and I find myself vaguely longing for the days when I used to do the same with every expectation that I would actually read my selected titles.