It snowed last night, school is cancelled, and the house is quiet while my family sleeps in. I climb out of bed eager to embrace these early hours if I can.
I move slowly, pour a cup of coffee, feed the cat (the dog is still asleep), and savor this thought: I will write today. I don’t know how long because the unexpected sometimes happens, such as a teenager who decides to get up early, defying all cliches, and fills the house with noise or drama, not to mention the expected mix of exercise, chores, and my part-time job. I don’t even know what I will write. I might make steady progress on the novel, sorting, reflecting, tweaking, expanding. I might draft something new, for the novel or for myself. I may start writing in my journal and discover it is one of those days when the thoughts keep coming, and my fingers fly across the keyboard.
It is morning, and I am not writing yet, but I am as filled with as much joy as if I were, because I know the words lie ahead of me. I love knowing that I will get to see where they might lead.