On a good day, I would arise before the sun, make myself a cup of Lady Grey, and sit quietly in my cozy studio nook to write in my artist’s notebook with a flourishing pen and effortless hand for page after uninterrupted page. The ideas would flow, eloquent and fully-formed, from the tip of my pen, like a fresh spring melt rushing down the mind’s mountainside.

On a good day, the concert pianist next door would start his morning with my favorite sonata, while the city’s pulsing whirl kept time below the swaying green canopy outside my lofty window. The day would float by in a slow waltz of words, a new day’s variation in my long pas de deux with the Muse. “My soul would sing of metamorphoses,” of passion and beauty, of grace beyond measure. I would capture every story with loving care and give it wings of truth and fire to greet the world.

On a good day, I would rise from my desk at six o’clock, tuck the day’s pages snugly to bed in a tattered French folio, and retire to my tiny rooftop oasis to dine with soft day-end breezes and smooth pinot noir. The waning hours would carry me with queenly content to the shabby comfort of my favorite wingback chair, perched fireside, of course, with blanket and book for company.

I would sleep to dream, with the sweat-sweet contentment of a good day’s work, and arise at dawn with eyes clear and bright, my mind like a window hinged open to the morning and wet with dew from the earth, ready to birth new stories into light.

On a good day, I would feel the words arc with a thrill of electricity from the tips of my fingers, lightning fast and feverish with intent.

On a good day.

On a good day.

On a good day.

* * *

And what about today, you ask?

Today, I make tea in a dirty cup. I yell at my husband before he shuts off his alarm. I eat a greasy breakfast to drown my grouchy mind. I open my notebook and close it again. I cringe at the scratchy pen in my hand. I plow through the entries in my blog reader like an addict, obsessive and compulsive, avoiding the blank white page with its blinking cursor that beats in rhythm with my heart.

Today, I sit shivering at this cold, hard desk, dousing myself in hot caffeine and other people’s words, waiting for inspiration and wishing for a better start. A new chance. A good day.

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