As I lay here on the couch on this slightly overcast Saturday, beach outing in flux, evening fireworks subject to cancellation due to passing thunderstorms, I am once again reminded that plans—as much as we continue to believe we have the complete autonomy to make them—are but a rough outline of the reality which so often befalls us.

Summer is barely underway, yet it’s already shaping up to be a season of surprises. Who’s to say what the next two months will bring? Certainly not me.

Used to be, I could turn out an adequate column in under an hour, on deadline, with little preparation—or prior inspiration. I’d stare at the computer screen while eating my usual 3 p.m. Chipotle lunch at my desk, willing an idea to materialize from thin air.

Hello, it’s me.

I haven’t written in awhile. Two months and 10-odd days, to be precise. But who’s counting? Not me, surely—not until I glance at the calendar and realize, wow, it’s been a bit since I’ve taken the time to thread my meandering thoughts into words.

I suppose not having a weekly deadline to meet will do that to you.