Um, much at all.
Because I don't want to.
I could give you all kinds of excuses about family responsibilities and neighborhood opportunities and church obligations and whatever, but the truth is that I have found time to read several very mediocre books, re-watch a few movies that weren't even that good the first time, and nap ferociously.
The muse packed up and left long ago, and I haven't even tried calling her back. (I want the cinnamon bears for myself, thank you very much.) But I want to want to. I want to feel that tickle in my fingers* and that tug at my brain that says there's a story inside me. I want to have that urge to wake up an hour earlier and get the good words on the page. I want to feel justified to call myself a writer.
Do you think that I will somehow magically return to writerliness when the kids go back to school? Will their enforced schedule trickle over this way? I hope so, somehow.
But for now, I'm going to play games and run around outside and take a few bike rides and remember that, first and forever, I'm the Mom around here.
Happy summer's end.
*Somewhat different from Shakespeare's "pricking in my thumbs" when "something wicked this way comes" - okay, really, really different.