My ass is pressed to the torn leather seats of my ‘89 Range Rover as it tears down the street. my running shoes are tied taut and I've slipped into my gym clothes. Writing hungry is like hunting hungry, for whatever reason, there feels like there is more on the line.Īt 2 p.m. For whatever reason, it keeps me focused and sharp and tenacious. They include walking outside, barefoot, for 5-minutes or so giving June and myself some fresh air. They include refilling my coffee mug when my eyes graze the bottom. They include her wet snout against my leg when this breaching doesn't give way to immediate attention. They include June sticking her face over the front of my desk like a seal breaching the surface of the ocean. The interruptions that do happen are welcomed.
and I clock in 6-hours of mostly uninterrupted writing and reading time. If I'm good, really good, I don't check email until 2 p.m. I blast David Bowie or Lana Del Rey or Bon Iver or Frank Ocean or Peach Pit or Cigarettes After Sex or The Weeknd or Frank Sinatra or The National as my hands move along the keyboard and slowly build momentum. I shut the door to signal to myself that it's now time to work. Books, pens, half-finished poems, plants and yesterday's coffee mug litter its surface save for a small empty rectangular space just large enough to fit my chosen writing instrument of choice for the day: a laptop or a typewriter or a notebook.
Mine is a wooden slab sitting atop a pair of metal legs. Hers is a great big dog bed where she whittles away at an antler.
#Describe a perfect day full
Once I've washed my teeth, made my bed, pulled on a pair of clothes that feel right for the day, coaxed June down from her perch with a bowl full of her breakfast which is the same as her dinner, the two of us make our way into my office where we find our work stations. Finally, she trots up to her perch: the deck that sits above my home where she likes to watch the world. I watch her from my bedroom window as I brush my teeth. I release my sweet, Magpie-colored pitbull and she follows me to the backdoor where I let her out. June is stirring in her crate, sneezing and yawning and chuffing, trying to make as much noise as possible without barking.Įventually, I rise. I lie still for a moment, resisting the urge to reach for my telephone, just an arm-length or so over, where I was up late the night before writing my girl. to the sun painting golden lines on my face, using the spaces between my bedroom's blinds as its brush.