This morning is coffee and Patti Smith and Lou Reed. This morning has been getting out of bed too late because I was reading Catherynne Valente’s The Bread We Eat in Dreams and falling in love with story after story, falling in love with each shiny little jewel of language that’s deployed.
This morning is porridge and a warm shower and a mild irritation about the fact that I have to shave. This morning is listening to Piss Factory, over and over.
This morning is thinking, well, two days to go, and realising that I still haven’t quite locked down the details for next week. This morning is an alert from the transit app letting me know all trains have been delayed.
This morning is missing Melbourne, just a little. This morning is looking forward to lunch. This morning is getting jealous at the friends who have wandered off to Adelaide this weekend, in order to attend the Romance Writers of Australia conference. This morning is spent thinking about poetry for the first time in years, and digging through the bookshelves for some old anthologies.
This morning is squinting at story drafts and asking, so, where’s the money in this?, because I’ve been watching too many pro-wrestling shoot interviews and it’s affecting the way I work. This morning is realising that’s no bad thing, because it’s calling my attention to things that need fixing.
This morning is chewing over a whole bunch of frustration and anger and regret.
This morning is asking myself, well, what do we want to blog about today?, and realising the answer is everything. This morning is realising that answer is untenable and making a compromise instead. It’s not an unusual morning, apart from its comparative lack of dread about the coming day.
This morning ain’t so bad, really. It’s more or less what I want my mornings to be.