A Writer’s Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, I had the perfect writer’s day.

My alarm woke me up at 5:45 AM in the middle of a dream. Or I woke naturally when the sun glinted off the mirror and into my eyes. Or the cat stood in the doorway and meowed like the world was ending.

I turned my head and coffee was waiting for me, perfectly mixed with coconut milk creamer in my favorite mug. Or I went downstairs in my cozy pajamas and poured myself a cup from the waiting pot.

I sat at the kitchen table with my notebook and the perfect pen. It was a freebie from a local tutoring center. Just a dumb free pen, but its ink flows across the notebook in perfect smooth synchronicity with the rhythm of my hand. Today it struggled to keep up with the speed of the words my brain wanted it to write.

Everyone else in my house woke up, got ready for the day, left. I stayed in my pajamas, the ones that are comfortable and stylish. I wandered up to my office, where the view looks out over the mountains. I sat at my computer and ignored my email. Instead I fired up Scrivener and my eyeballs landed right where I left off yesterday.

Because I was working on my novel.

The story played in my head like a movie and I typed as fast as I could to capture this mental magic with computer magic. I made myself laugh and cry. I took breaks to fold laundry, go for a walk, meet a friend for lunch. We talked about writing and how horrible and wonderful it is. Or I hiked in nature. I posted a #hikingselfie on instagram and it got 30 likes in the first minute of its life.

I went home and poured a glass of wine. It was noon somewhere.

I read what I wrote today and I was pleased. I wrote some more. I hit 1,000 words for the day and pushed my chair back from desk with a big hell yeah.

The family came home and we played and we talked and we ate dinner. They cleaned up while I went to a yoga class. I ran into a girlfriend who is also a writer and we talked about how horrible and wonderful writing is. I talked to a new person who said something about connecting your wings together across the back of your heart that I swore to remember so I could work it into a story someday.

I guess I just did.

Back at home I took a shower and got into some more comfortable yet stylish pajamas and I snuggled up in bed with a good book. This book made me jealous of the author’s seemingly effortless skill with dialogue and I made a mental note to try something like that in my manuscript tomorrow and my brain was so pleasantly tired that I put the book down, set my alarm, and reached over to switch off the light.

And I lived happily ever after.