Monday, July 23, 2012
ONE DAY AT A TIME
Writing is a solitary career. Hours in front of the computer broken by snacks and bursts of exercise. Sleep comes when the words become jumbled and clog the exit from the brain. That’s when sleep comes, three or four hours of it.
The hours of the night are broken into segments of tossing bedcovers, checking e-mail, and massaging a scene in the dark with new ideas that I scribble on a pad by my beside. I’m not alone, because the stories waken me, begging to be told. I have no resistance during the night and even less when the sun rises, usually an hour or two after me.
I become agitated if responsibilities pull me from penning a murder scene or the setting of a beautiful stretch along a quiet road. Only Sportster can weave himself between me and the keyboard with the grace of a swan gliding across a blue-green pond. I welcome him, burying my nose in his soft fur and inhale his scent. He shrugs me off and walks away only to pass by me again, purring with a contentment that thrills me, knowing he’s happy in my care.