So begins another week. Another Monday. I struggled waking up this morning. No alarm, but the phone showed 7:27 am when I looked at it. I closed my eyes for a few delicious seconds, and almost drifted off, but then the thought broke through that the mornings were the only time I had to write. If I want to write a novel in 30 days for Nanowrimo, I better get used to a routine of sorts. So I sit in the library, the windows open, the daylight pouring over the laptop, the smell of the hot coffee swimming near my senses, awakening me. I feel like a writer. I have all the tools. Except for one small one. The words. Those pesky letter that i can litter on a blank piece of paper so I can actually stop feeling like a fraud. That can make this more than a dream. A writer.
So I sit there, noticing everything yet avoiding looking at the blank screen of me. The cursor blinks patiently. It disappears and then appears. Waiting. I yawn, scratch myself, take a sip of the coffee, and promptly go on Twitter or play Words with Friends. Minutes pas. The timer counts down. Suddenly, a thought. I lean over the laptop, pausing uncertainly but then the first words appears. The clicks of the keyboard motivate to keep going. They may not be Rembrandt or Hemingway, but it’s a start. I am awake. The dream is in front of me.