Normally, I would have written by 10:00 a.m. Especially on a Sunday morning when demands are few and nothing could be as satisfying as breakfast in bed, a soft blanket around my knees, soft morning light casting patterns on the shades, typing blissfully away, recapturing the week's moments that stood out, the serendipity that alighted on my life, or the joyful transcribing of an auspicious thought that made me tremble.
Writing is such a habit--a beloved habit. A first thing, clear out the cobwebs, beginning to a beautiful day, kind of habit.
Last week, my teaching partner bragged that, "Mrs. Martinez writes an essay every day."
A habit with accountability to students, to my teaching partner, but most of all, to me.
Very few things interrupt the need to write in the morning...unless I make the mistake of starting a very good book. It supplants writing (almost) entirely, but not completely, because here I am, book to the side, breathing, almost baring its teeth in the most friendly kind of way, wanting to get back into the palms of my hands, back into the narrative I am putting together in my head.
With this focus, I will have finished the book by the end of the day, and I will have been to Russia, England, and Europe, will have spanned five decades of a man's life, been on the most intimate adventures in his company. As if the above wouldn't be enough, I'll also have explored the financial market, a chunk of fascinating 20th century history, the fall and crippled rise of the Soviet Union, and treachery, murder, and resolution--at least I hope for resolution.
The book you may ask? Red Notice by Bill Browder.
Excuse me now for I have been kidnapped by a book.
Writing is such a habit--a beloved habit. A first thing, clear out the cobwebs, beginning to a beautiful day, kind of habit.
Last week, my teaching partner bragged that, "Mrs. Martinez writes an essay every day."
A habit with accountability to students, to my teaching partner, but most of all, to me.
Very few things interrupt the need to write in the morning...unless I make the mistake of starting a very good book. It supplants writing (almost) entirely, but not completely, because here I am, book to the side, breathing, almost baring its teeth in the most friendly kind of way, wanting to get back into the palms of my hands, back into the narrative I am putting together in my head.
With this focus, I will have finished the book by the end of the day, and I will have been to Russia, England, and Europe, will have spanned five decades of a man's life, been on the most intimate adventures in his company. As if the above wouldn't be enough, I'll also have explored the financial market, a chunk of fascinating 20th century history, the fall and crippled rise of the Soviet Union, and treachery, murder, and resolution--at least I hope for resolution.
The book you may ask? Red Notice by Bill Browder.
Excuse me now for I have been kidnapped by a book.
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