"Cleaned a bit," I say cheerfully. "Did some kung fu practice. Wrote another scene."
"So the writing's still going good, then," he says.
"Oh gawd, yes," I almost moan. "It's like all the machinery is running–running smooth–spinning–" I make hand-cranking motions on either side of my head, because ironically enough, talking about writing is for me extremely geometric and tactile, rather than verbal. "Moving right along, thank god." I can't describe how fulfilling it is. "Only problem is, I got all these sewing orders pouring in, got this one I got to finish up and mail out by the end of the week."
"And you don't even care, do you?"
"Not the least little bit. No."