The garbage trucks agitated the puppy this morning, so she’s sitting with me in the office this morning, gnawing on a rope bone, being generally excellent. I hear little bitey sounds, the scratch of her claws against my bag.
Here’s what’s true: it’s still painful every time the alarm goes off at 4am. I have to pull myself up, drag the body away from sleep and dreams. There’s a snap, and I’m sitting up, pulling on a sweater, walking into the kitchen to light the burner for teawater. And then I’m in front of the computer (no candle, no notebook, not right now) and the illumination from the screen is way too bright for human eyes. I yawn, stretch, rub the sleep away from my face over and over. Why am I doing this? I open the document for this long story, and read through yesterday’s writing, or last week’s, finding where I’m going to touch in today, and suddenly I’m with these women who I’m coming to adore, I’m getting to spend part of my morning learning more of their story — the truth is that this is my favorite part of the day, this deep dark writing time, this morning imaginary, this tea-lined playhouse.
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