A Writer's Half Day

 

 

I wake to a bowl of tea brought by my husband.

We read in bed until my lazy, like-to-sleep-in pup gets him up for a walk. I miss him because we share words, phrases, sentences /or news if one of us is checking the internet.

I'm on the last of the Louise Penny mysteries, having read them in order. Unlike the others, I read slowly instead of rushing to the end. I don't want to leave Penny's village of Three Pines and Ruth with her duck, Clara the painter, the boys who owns the BnB. I will miss the description of the wonderful meals and snacks. They are people, I've come to know.

I do read other things along with the series, knowing I can go back to Three Pines with the next book. I hope Penny is working on another.

Rick is experimenting with a new recipe. It is his day for lunch which frees up time for both of us that we alternate days on making lunch. And there are the days that either one of us Decide to "cook" at one of the local restaurants.

Although I had planned to sit down and start writing on a short story, immediately after my shower, I don't feel it. Having worked as a journalist, in PR and Marketing, I usually can write on demand but it is harder. The dog wants lap time so I put on a Netflix film as Rick walks to the butcher.

Rick and I decide to go to the "Boys" a cafe behind a small hotel, which serves almost the same purpose as a UK Pub. For the first time I will free write with him. In the past I've done it regularly with another writer, but lately her schedule does not permit it. I miss it.

We arrive. We find seats in the shade under the mulberry tree.  

I order Yorkshire tea: he orders fresh squeezed orange juice. The dog settles under the table. By taking our our notebooks and pen, the friends we know, realize we are writing and keep greetings short yet still warm.

The object is to fine a "victim" and free write ten minutes about using that person as a prompt. 

Our "victim" is a man we passed on our walk to the café. He was sitting in a chair outside his house, his face lifted to the sun. In our ancient village the streets are narrow and the 400 year old plus houses are touching.

After about 10 minutes, we put down our pens and read what we wrote. There are similarities and differences. My husband is a good writer, but writes mostly journalistic pieces. I feel my writing pump has primed me as much as putting water in pump to get it going. This afternoon I should be able to work on the short story that I've had trouble getting to.

At home, I smell Rick's cooking project. I write this blog, will do research on another project until after lunch.

Life is good.