A Good Day Writing
The day begins at 4:35am when the alarm on my wife’s phone blares. Within 15 minutes she has left for her workout. The espresso machine is warm. A single shot and I'm ready, poised at my writer’s desk beneath the shadow of dawn with only the feintest of hangovers. Last night, I had a captivating idea – Slovakia and a kept promise.
In the quiet clarity of the early morning, I grapple it onto the paper of a lined Moleskine notebook. This is my time capsule, storing thoughts for a future self who is tasked with the monumental journey of creation with only these fragments as a guide. I’m entranced by the idea, but I guard against optimism. I have known the deceptive allure of a fresh idea and the inevitable logical roadblocks that follow, contorting it into something far removed from its origin.
My wife returns at 6:20am and my notebook closes. A different kind of day unfolds. I navigate through fatherhood, balancing breakfast demands and school runs. After my wife leaves for work, I find myself alone again, the house empty, my thoughts echoing against the silence. An uninterrupted sanctuary for 4.5 hours.
Yesterday, two pages of my current project emerged. Today, I put them on trial. The courtroom is a platform five steps up on the staircase in my house. My jury is an imagined audience of my harshest critics - past enemies, bullies, ex-girlfriends, and mean teachers. Their critique is brutal as I read along but I note down every flinch, every grimace, every half-hearted laugh. By the time I have finished reading, the audience has dwindled to two; a problematic admirer who is my barometer for everything uncool, and my oft-silent muse. “Not your best but it’s got potential,” she pronounces.
With a renewed cup of coffee and my notes, I'm back at my desk. From two pages I salvage only two sentences. A new start. By the afternoon, progress is slow, but it's there. The rest of the day unwinds with family activities, a shared dinner at our favorite restaurant, American Revelry, where my wife and I split a bottle of wine.
"How'd it go today?" my wife inquires.
“Narrowed it down to a few sentences, then made some progress,” I respond.
“Tomorrow promises more?”
“It does.”
“I’m glad.”
At home, the chores are done, and the children put to bed, and there is a corked bottle of wine leftover from last night. I pour another glass and return to my desk. Two pages turn to three, equaling the glasses of wine. I feel as a hero feels, drunk, having slayed a beast I know full well will arise again tomorrow. A gentler beast, perhaps, and maybe a softer tribunal with a few forgiving friends interspersed throughout the crowded auditorium of critics.
It is midnight.
I turn the lamp off and lay in bed. Falling asleep quickly, I dream of Bratislava.
