I should be working on my book. I should be hunkered down, nose to the grindstone, making words work. Should be.
I’m sipping my second cup of coffee, sending the occasional text, and enjoying a quiet morning. Negotiating with myself. I deserve a morning where I don’t think about it. But there it is, always hanging around. My story.
I spend a lot of time waiting for my muse. Waiting for inspiration. Waiting, instead of writing.
So I’ll barter and reward myself with thirty minutes more of a lazy summer morning, turn my phone off, and I’ll write.
It’s what I do now.