With both kids in school this year, for the first time in nine years I have a slice of time I can call my own.
Wednesday and Thursday mornings I write before heading to work in the afternoon. Friday mornings I meet friends for coffee and treats – officially we still call it “playgroup,” though there are only two young kids left amongst the five moms. And then, for the rest of Friday until I pick up the kids from school, I write.
This is how I choose to spend my free time: writing, with a bit of coffee, a slice of pumpkin bread and a little chat in between.
Last Friday I stacked manuscript pages into a pile and stepped outdoors, where I pulled a chair close to the metal patio table and spread out my stuff. There, with the sun glinting through the river birch tree and Noah’s bonsai keeping me elegant company, I spliced and diced chapters and paragraphs, reworking 200 pages into a new rhythm.
To some this might sound like nothing short of Hell, the slicing, dicing, rewriting, writing, editing, reworking.
But to me, warm sun on my hair, feet tucked into striped cushion, pen in hand, chickadee at the feeder, it was perfect, simple bliss.
Linking this bliss today with Dayle's Simple Pleasures and Emily's Imperfect Prose.