6:00, or somewhere close to that, haul overweight self out of bed. It was easier when there was less of me to haul. Would be easier if it wasn’t dark and cold. No life like the one of a writer. Brush teeth and put hair into a clip. Empty dishwasher, start washer, get coffeepot ready for Husband who will get up in two hours, take morning pills, find something to eat that doesn’t require preparation, head for office. Make something hot from the Keuring. Write like a wild person with frequent visits to Facebook and blogs I follow.
9:00ish, take a break. Go to house, wring hands and tell Husband the book sucks and I’ll never get it done. Never! Put clothes in dryer. Eat something else that requires little or no preparation. Take meat for dinner from freezer if I remember. Think about getting dressed but don’t do it. Go back to office. Write like a wild person. Avoid Facebook.
11:45, stare into space for 15 minutes, thinking it’s over. I’ll never finish Chapter Nine. No, never. Make frequent visits to Facebook. Read blogs I didn’t read earlier. Play solitaire. I’m starving.
12:15, or somewhere close to that. Go to house. Get dressed—maybe. Fold clothes. Talk to Husband. Eat lunch. Decide not to go back to the office—need the afternoon off.
2:00, or somewhere close to that. Go back to office. Write post for blog. Either this one or one I’m visiting. Write another paragraph in Chapter Nine. Even if I take it out later, I like how it fits now. Lean back in chair and think there’s no life like the one of a writer. Let my gaze slip sneakily to the other side of the room where quilt blocks lie quietly. Waiting.
4:00 or maybe 4:30 Look up from sewing machine. Husband is at the door of the office. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he says. “I thought I’d make sure you were all right.” He looks at the pattern of colors on the sewing machine, at the lights still on in the office half of the room, the laptop waiting open and expectant on the desk. “Good day?” I get up, turning off lights. “The best,” I say, because any time he’s there at the end of it, it’s a good day. We go into the house, talking about our days and the afternoon pills I didn't take. About what to have for supper that doesn’t require meat because I forgot to take it out of the freezer. About kids and grandkids and weekend plans. About Chapter Nine.
I don’t lock the office door when we go in. Because later on, maybe half-past-Jeopardy, when he’s watching television or practicing music, I’ll go back out. Make something from the Keurig. Write a little more. Or not. Sometimes it’s enough just to be there. Knowing there’s no life like the one of a writer.