My daughter is writing 30,000 words for National Novel Writing Month, and I am not.

I am proofreading her bat mitzvah invitation and walking the dog and editing student essays and making sure we have enough bananas.

I am putting stuffed animals to sleep and attending parent-teacher conferences and sitting with my husband while he eats Chinese food and tells me about his day.

I am framing a photo so vivid I could jump right off the dock into that blue-gray lake.

I am learning Shabbat musaf with my great-uncle’s tenor singing through my iPod.

I am wiping the kitchen counter and mailing invoices and arranging for haircuts.

My daughter is writing 1000 words a day, and I am not.

I am sitting on the edge of her bed talking about plot and characters who contradict themselves and letting the story tell you what it needs you to know.

I am living a tangled, dizzy, beautiful life. The novel can wait.