The spring flowers are bright and welcoming as I drive down the gravel driveway to the detached garage in the back of our 100-year-old Victorian home. Medium-size pea gravel crunches beneath my Sonata’s tires. Maverick geraniums dot the flower beds. Scarlet, white, and rose-colored flowers stand among the landscaped flower beds that surround the wrap-around front porch.
I’ve just returned from the local diner after gobbling down a half an omelet wrap. An omelet wrap is just what it sounds like—sausage gravy and shredded home fries enclosed in eggs that have been beaten until frothy and then cooked until set. I admit that I also ate the homemade biscuit. What a wonderful way to start the day.
I park the car in the garage and walk to the back door. I put my key into the lock and open the door. I’m greeted by Smokey II, a short-haired black feline beauty who doubles as a friend and muse. She cocks her head as if to say, “Finally. It’s about time. Ready to work?”
We climb the stairs to my second-floor office. I race her to the top of the landing, but I always lose. I turn on my Alienware computer and arrange my two monitors while Windows boots up and the word processing program opens. The monitors must be just so. I tweak them this way and that, forward and backward.
All the while, my mind is climbing upward preparing itself to receive direction from on high. Who knows what paths we’ll explore today? It’s all part of being a writer. Each experience is different—some resplendent with hope and achievement—others with frustration and rejection.
Tomorrow will be another day—the same but different. We’ll rise, Smokey and I, and start the process all over again. We’ll keep doing it until we get it right.