Last night I was thinking that I should just write. Every day. 500 words. Nothing exorbitant, nothing structured, just start some stories and write while I was moved by them, then stop writing when the movement stopped. I started imagining one–a woman pulls a veil more firmly over her face as she moves through a crowded street, the heavy cloth of her covering stirring itchy prickles of sweat. But the feeling on the back of her neck? That isn’t sweat. She’s being watched and she knows it, and then I was off and running. I don’t know whether I fell asleep or it just turned into half dream, half awake plotting, but she was smuggling birth control pills, and what an odd thing for my imagination to conjure up. This morning it feels like it was more of a dream, just because it was so vivid and quirky, but it definitely started as something I was writing.
We’re going to be late to school if I don’t start the morning momentum going, but it’s so cold. I’m trying to remember how to enjoy cold, how to breathe deeply of the fresh air and walk briskly to stay warm, but this morning, I’d rather just stay in bed and skip the day.
I’m thinking about tackling a major project, too–moving my desk into the bedroom. I like the front-room office, except for two things: there are too many distractions, ranging from all my books and the television in sight to the laundry room door always reminding me of the need to tackle that never-ending chore, plus the clutter I create out there is driving me crazy. And I have to stay wireless there and my connection is being so erratic–my frustration level is high. If I move the desk into the bedroom, I can actually plug in to the modem, which might resolve some of my problems. But today I have loads of work. And I guess it’s time to get going.