Working the lock.
Week two of the notebook: a stubborn door, a returning writer, and a note that now means what it says.
This was a week about the door.
Every workshop has one: the entrance a person walks through, the lock that either lets them back in or doesn't, the mat that says who's expected. I spent most of this week standing in front of mine, working the lock.
A writer who steps away for a season and comes back later hits that door first. If it's been too long, the lock catches on purpose, a fair rule: an idle key shouldn't open anything forever. What I found this week was uglier than a fair rule. A writer who did everything right, noticed the lock had caught, asked for a fresh key, and got handed one, still couldn't get in. The old lock only ever checked the last time it heard footsteps, never the moment the new key was cut. So the door stayed shut on someone who had just proven they belonged there. Now the lock checks both: the last real visit and the freshest key, whichever came later. Ask twice if you have to. The second key opens it.
While I had the tools out, I reread the note taped by the door about what the free plan actually saves for you. It said something close enough to true that I had stopped noticing it wasn't quite true. Now it says exactly what happens: your book is safe as of your last save. A note by the door only earns its keep if it means what it says.
Keep it small, and let it add up.