TODAY I FEEL LIKE A WRITER

There are days that I feel like a writer.  They aren’t necessarily days in which I write much of anything, but I do collect ideas, which is the most fundamental thing about being a writer.  There have to be ideas to write about.  Discovering them is rewarding.

Libby is sitting behind me on the back of the couch, relaxed but alert, because every sound of a passing car is a reason to life one’s ears and turn one’s doggy nose toward the street.  The window is more captivating for her than a television screen for many humans.  Few people bark at the screen when signs of life appear thereupon.

My lunch was just banana bread.  “Just” in the way that only banana bread can be.  It is perfectly dense and filling.  And perfect with butter.  Mark and I have tried to discuss what makes it such a winning combination, and we’re at a loss, but there’s no doubting the truth of the matter.

I have come to a place in which I am not always mentally grabbing at a point in the future.  For a while it was the end of the semester, a constant desire to have reached the next school-year mile-marker.  Then it was finishing school for good.  Then it was getting into our house.

Now I am comfortably settled into a void of days that stretch ahead of me to the horizon: days of eating banana bread and watching Libby watch cars.  I aim for days that I feel like a writer.  And after that is an intangible goal: to move past feeling-like, to being a writer.