Books don’t–as much as we may wish they did–spring forth from our brains onto perfectly printed pages or automatically downloaded to an e-reader. They are labors of love (and frustration). They’re also a group effort.

I didn’t spend the early pandemic months of 2020 making sourdough bread, learning a new language, or writing a novel. We’d move to Texas a measly 9 months prior. We were still trying to settle in, considering if we wanted to buy a home, and figuring out future plans. My sons–who I homeschool–were completing their 11th and 8th grade years. I was plenty busy.