Today is the first day of class. I have put on an extroverted and caffeinated version of myself. I’ve had conversations with writers about whether or not teaching is “good” for one’s writing, and I think I’m in the category of those whose writing is served by teaching. On good days, I feel as though the conversation in my classes stokes the fire of my own writing by making me consciously articulate the things I care about it writing, the routes I believe are most effective for producing good writing. But some days, too, there’s just an exhaustion that makes the alphabet seem foreign, from space. I have one class to go and I wonder what I should do with these minutes to “refresh” so that talking about writing is not a deathless abstraction.