Writing: The Fantasy
The house is not just clean, but digitially altered (rooms are elongated, windows enlarged, piles of paper replaced by vases of gardenias). There's a pot of hot coffee, two cheese straws on a white linen napkin, a Mason jar of sharp pencils. My hair is straight and I am wearing lip gloss. I sit at the table and turn on my laptop and I write all day. When I look up, it is dark. Time for a glass of wine and some Ella Fitzgerald.
Writing: The Reality
The sink is full of dishes and my Ontario Health Card just expired. The mesh in my French press is warped so my coffee is murky. My hair is uncombed and I can't find my Chapstick. I sit on the sofa surrounded by piles of unmarked exams. I can't find my character's voice. I know that 95% of what I have written today will be deleted, but I polish it anyway. When I look up, it is dark, but this is no great accomplishment because it was dark when I sat down. Time for a glass of wine and some Ella Fitzgerald.
Tomorrow is another day.