Write four lines of prose about: the draft.
Back to the market tomorrow, bringing the last nine crates of cherries (screw you, rain), the last 44 pints of strawberries (woo hoo, no more strawberry picks for this year), 31 pints of raspberries, and a whole lot of shelling peas (didn't bother counting the number of bags).
Now as long as the weather plays nice it should be another good one. Not nearly as ridiculous as last week's, but we won't be topping that one any time soon. Maja is coming with me for her final market before she leaves us on Monday, Genevieve will stick around the farm to get some more weeding done, and Kat and Max will be coming up mid-morning'ish with my parents.
Seriously, weather. Play nice.
I put the final touches on it and then carefully tuck it inside a box I had set aside for just this purpose. It fits perfectly, cushioned by coloured paper and bubble wrap. Then the lid goes on, removing it from sight - likely forever - and I begin my search for an ideal hiding spot.
The first draft of my novel can never be seen by anyone.