This evening I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen. On the counter was a The Writer magazine, a picture I was working on, and a glass of wine. The shouts and laughter of my son and husband bounced in from the other room. I coated the picture with finish, took a sip of wine, and read a few paragraphs on writing. Another coat, another sip, a little more reading.
Moments like that and the hectic day that awaits doesn’t even matter.
But now I’ve got to look at the novel. More wine may be needed.