Have you ever been groggy with sleep, and almost put the dishwasher soap-pellet in your coffee?
Yeah.
Bookends
I was stymied in my writing yesterday. I’d written a bunch (technical writing slang for “many words and a long time”) yesterday, and made great progress. But —
As great comedians have noted, there’s always a “but.”
My but came because I didn’t write the scene I’d intended. I wrote the setup for the scene, and then went blank. I knew what happened after that scene, so I wrote the other end of it. Now I had bookends, with blank space to fill in the middle. I knew the subsequent scene to those scenes, and began writing them in my head after I’d stopped physically writing. But that scene I’d set out to write? Still blank.
I sporadically considered the scene’s elements, setup and outcome through the evening as I walked, ate, read books, and fed the cats. Nothing firmed. It was like Jello that wouldn’t set.
Come this morning, though, as I rose, fed cats, checked on the solar panels invertor, and made coffee, the scene swam into view. Confrontations and dialogue developed. Unexpected actions by the characters joined. As the scene expanded and crystallized, changes required to the setup, outcome, and the subsequent story being written in my head emerged. By the time I’d finished showering and shaving, and was dressing, words rushed into my head. That’s exciting and fun.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Breakfast
You ever eat a pastry, like a doughnut or a bear claw, in the morning as you’re drinking your coffee (or tea), and think, this is not healthy, but it really tastes good?
Yeah. Once in a while.
While
While I looked out the window.
And studied the rainbow.
And thought about rainbows and the myths and science about them.
And admired its beauty.
While sleep was still being chased away.
And thoughts frolicked with dream remnants.
And the day’s planned activities opened in my mind like a hand of cards.
And I thought about making the first cup of coffee.
While I thought about what I was going to do today.
And what I needed to do.
I turned to my computer, and opened my file.
The file of the section of the novel in progress I’m working on.
And I typed.
A hundred words.
Five hundred.
One thousand.
Twelve hundred.
Fifteen hundred.
Then the scene was done.
And I reviewed what I’d written.
And closed the file.
And while I thought about what I’d just written.
And what was to be written.
And what it meant for what was already written.
I went to make my morning coffee.
Quirks
She has quirks. She loves chocolate, and she loves coffee and espresso, but she doesn’t like chocolate covered espresso beans.
Coffee
You ever take the first sip of your morning coffee, and think that everything about it is so perfect and fantastic that you feel like you’re a pool of coffee for a moment?
Yeah, me, too.
Friday’s Theme Music
Volcanos erupting in Japan and Indonesia, threats of missiles being exchanged between the U.S. and North Korea, Black Lives Matter, voter right suppression, Russia-gate, white supremacists, gun control arguments, protests, the Weinstein scandal, war refugees, Pacific Northwest and California wildfires and destruction, the Hurricane Maria disaster in Puerto Rico, hurricane and earthquake disasters in Mexico, hurricane destruction in several other American states, plans to build a wall on the southern U.S. border, the President threatening freedom of the press, the Vegas mass killer….
Contemplating it all over coffee brought to mind Billy Joel’s nineteen eighty-nine song from “Storm Front,” “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” He covered the headlines from nineteen forty-nine, when he was born, until the year the album was released, but the fire goes on.
At least, it feels like it on this cool, autumn morning in twenty seventeen.
What A World, What A World
On a day when I get a free coffee for my loyalty points, and it’s Free Refill Friday, I can only stay three hours.
His Dark Secret
His dark secret wasn’t that he disliked coffee. Nor was his dark secret the revelation about how broke he was, or how he collected cans and bottles from the streets and did odd jobs to have the money to buy a four-shot mocha at the coffee shop every day.
His dark secret wasn’t that how he worked for the money and spent it on coffee every day because he liked flirting with the young women who worked behind the counter. Neither was his dark secret his admission that his coffee shop visit was his day’s only highlight, and he looked forward to it each morning. No, his dark secret, that he didn’t share even with himself, was that they were the only friends he had.
Michael Seidel, writer 