On a good day I wake up without the alarm clock, it is early morning and I can not wait to start the day writing. I start by emptying the buffers from a good night of refreshing sleep and writing long hand on my private journal; you know that one that I do not share with anybody, that one that I rarely leaf back through, that one where I write the free flowing stuff that is much too embarrassing to go back to and read.
On that very same good day, I sit my 30 minutes of zazen or go for a run at dawn, and I can barely wait to delight in the simple pleasure of a double expresso with soya milk and brown sugar.
On a good day, after the early morning rituals or meditation and free flow, I sit down to the challenge of telling that story that was never told, the challenge of writing the present novel. It is a damn good story, if ever I get it to rein in. It is something about life and death, it is something about family. All my stories are about that in one way or the other.
On that same good day, there is food prepared, the bills paid, laundry clean and no tomorrow. It occurs to me now that I do not like writing about money, not yet at least. On a good day I would like to write about money.
On a good day I spontaneously decide that with all respect for my slowness, speed is called for, and I register to take a test for which I am not yet ready only because I have no good reason to want to take that test other than the impulse of the moment and the surge of inner energy flowing through my body.
On another good day I just write fiction, and that is the only reality that I experience.
On yet another day I get lost in the experience of sunshine and wind.