The Writing Life

February 28, 2011

10 a.m.

Stayed home to write.  A grey day with a few steely snowflakes falling.  Thermometer reads 20.  Wind chill makes it feel like 10.  The wind is gusty—the branches of a young pine bounce; the trunk of a small oak, three inches in diameter or so, quivers a little.  Jays are calling just outside the door.  The fire is crackling finally, after being recalcitrant and eating up an entire new fire’s worth of kindling throughout the morning.  I talked to Rick briefly on the phone an hour ago.

“Coyote ran across the lake,” I told him, by way of news.

“Should’ve shot it,” he said, not serious.  The neighbors shoot the coyotes whenever they can, hating them for preying on the deer, but we like to see them.

“I know.  If I’d had a gun—”

“Lots of guns,” he points out.  Which is true, there’s a rack of rifles above the door.  Then before I can do it, he admits, “But no ammo.”  This is a failing of ours.  There is ammo–just–where did we stow it?  Somewhere.  In some kind of as-yet unimagined emergency this would not be funny, but in the meantime I can tell he’s smiling.

We hang up and I go back to work on an essay.  At first my progress is halting, but then I get absorbed by it and stop wandering—to the coffeepot, the fire, the window, the sink (the backsplash needed scrubbing), the phone.

Category: At Home | Tags: , , One comment »

One Response to “The Writing Life”

  1. Gerry Sell

    Mm-hm. I thought I was the only one disputing with recalcitrant fires. It gives me a lot of musing time, though, sitting there quietly, waiting for it to grow up and support itself.

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