Suddenly, The Author was hauled away from her computer by two big thugs in purple striped suits, and thrown at the feet of A Parent, who demanded of the Innocent Author what she had done with a little doohickey The Parent wanted for the sewing machine. There were Words, and then The Author told The Parent that it was really annoying to be immediately assumed guilty EVERY time something goes missing, and The Parent rolled her eyes until The Author, who is taller, could only see the whites, and said that it was only REASONABLE to ask the last person who had it what they did with it, at which point The Author said she DID NOT KNOW, and stomped out. No one likes to be yelled at when they're writing.
And I tell you all of this to explain why the quality of The Author's work may or may not drop, because she is mad and feeling sorry for herself because everything is always her fault and she is considering running away except that it would probably be uncomfortable to run away at this or any other time of year, and if she's stuck it out for almost sixteen years, surely she can stick it out for another three.
End of commentary.
This is from a year ago.
I'm going to hit the NYT's bestseller list any day now, aren't I?