A rainy Thursday.
The dogs settled on the couch, one cat asleep in a closet, the other cat making his own fun.
The house to myself.
A large pot of coffee.
As he always does, my dearest husband made sure there was a fresh pot brewing when I arrived back from my walk. He made ten cups as usual. But both he and my mother are keeping appointments this morning so the whole pot is mine alone to drink. I pulled out one of my big Jen Houghtaling mugs; that's what it's going to take to get through the pot.
I hope he remembered to make it with decaf.
Although by noon, I might wish it was high-test. Last week, I wrote the drafts of two 2500-word essays requested by a publisher so that is this morning's work: editing.Producing a column a week for the Oxford Journal and numerous articles and essays a year has taken the edge of that "anticipatory dread" that used to come before reading new work for the first time after writing it. Now I don't feel the need to do laundry and wash the breakfast dishes in an effort to postpone the moment of truth.
Now I just want to dive in and make it better, make it good. Good enough for the publisher to sit up in his chair and shout, "Yes!"
No pressure there.
Maybe I'll just sit at the dining room table with another cup of coffee and look out at the rain for awhile. While the washing machine does a load of darks. No point in rushing through the morning, after all.
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