Earlier than I have been, possibly ever.  Iced coffee, day 2 no mocha.  07:46.  Detaching self from any plainness of day.  That includes work.  But not talking about that, more the recipe I this morning wrote to get me to travel, to get me to my finished book, to change everything.

I notice myself writing much the same, so I utterly switch and re-write the Now, ME.  Focusing on short fiction, as per Mom’s counsel.  Writing idea after idea down, single words and character names— the barista, the pilot, the teacher, the poet, tasting room associate…

Waiting to hear still from possible new assignment.  But I’m not waiting.  I’m going on with my story, a writer, nothing supplies such merriment.  Nothing, as when I’m here like this in a coffee spot or in own home, writing something.  Could be notes, what I want to do with day, more on my travels eventual, wine, running, waking early, my babies…