It’s not early morning anymore. It was when I woke up.
There’s a pot of coffee on. I shouldn’t drink it all. I probably will.
It’s snowing, lightly.
I’m revising my book, Girl Island. I can make it better. More immediate and fleshed out in the beginning. Stronger through the characters. I revise in the morning, before work. Early. I revise in the evening, after the kids go to bed. I make the story better. To me, it’s an important story because it celebrates people whose stories aren’t often told. Refugees. Immigrants. And it envisions a more just society, one that we could build, too.
I have a short story to share soon, but I don’t know its name. I may call it The Raised Eyebrow. I’m not sure. It’s about a child born of rape. But it’s not about that. Or rather, it is. I’m not sure. I don’t know where it came from, only that it exists.
I have another story to share about a bunch of balloons released in Cleveland in 1986. It’s a semi-famous event.
I have another story about a desperate woman and her disbelieving daughter on their way to a faith healer.
I have a story about a man who has to demolish an invincible structure, layered over the narrative of Egyptian Atenism.
I have stories. And I have a pot of coffee. There’s snow on the lawn, and the road. It’s cold but I’m not cold. I wish I could say why I do this, but I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I write. To figure it out.