What's worse than eating too much pasta? I WILL TELL YOU.

Hypothetical situation: You're on a deserted island for a month, living off of coconuts and berries and seaweed and a little fish and maybe a nice juicy bug here and there. You have quite enough food to survive, but you're a little concerned about the supply running low . . . and you can't stop thinking about pasta. Because you LOVE pasta and used to eat it every day. Then, one day, a luxurious cruise ship floats by your deserted island and rescues you. Once aboard, you're presented with a pasta BUFFET. You can't contain your glee. Maybe you get a little overeager. Maybe you eat ALL THE PASTA. Then what do you do? Well, you either projectile vomit OR you complain loudly about how much your stomach hurts and lament the birth of the man who invented pasta.

Now, let's say that "you" means "me," the deserted island is a dry spell in editing projects, and the pasta is three manuscripts due by the end of April.

In short, I said yes one too many times and ended up with too much on my plate.

Those of you whom I know in real life (whatever THAT means) may have to forgive me for retreating to my mind palace until May. Husband, if you're reading this . . . make a list of reasons you love me. You may need to refer to it later when you've forgotten who I am.

I still fully intend to participate in Alice's Woman in White read-along, although it may be the only book I read all month. And as for my weekly posts . . . I've always wondered how a lobotomy would affect my writing.