In my mind, or some alternate life, I am a disciplined person who wakes at 5 a.m. and promptly starts my hour-and-a-half yoga routine, which is followed by a half hour of meditation. Then I have my herbal tea and an ultra-healthy breakfast followed by ten hours of joyous composing in which I focus with razor-sharp clarity on my work. I follow this routine with a military-like precision, and nothing—nothing—can pull me away from it.
Real life is much, much messier. I don't follow any real routine these days. I'm totally at the mercy of whatever is due. I feel lucky to get in twenty minutes of exercise. I constantly feel a sense of nervousness (left over from the Year of Hell) that has yet to drain completely away. I feel skittish much of the time (the cough that never went away after I got sick doesn't help). Some days I'm left with only the vague conviction to finish, because I started this venture only to make the second half of my life better than the first. But yesterday was just One Of Those Days that left me feeling like the dream is receding. I felt like a person stranded on a desert island, watching the only rescue ship she's likely to see completely miss her and disappear over the horizon.
But today is a new day. I get to compose to my heart's content. It always amazes me how much a good night's sleep helps my perspective.
With tea in hand, I salute those who are silently or not so silently cheering me on.
Ever onward . . .