At my desk

I like working at the kitchen table.

Apparently women writers do...

Groovy baby, yeah.

Nate gets the night and I get the morning to myself.

The sun hits the kitchen table when I wake up, urging me. (sometimes I resist)

The window overlooks a giant tree.

I still don't know what kind. I don't want to download the app.

The tree was bare and spindly all winter, but now its spring, and the bright green buds bring flying ants and insects that crowd our lantern-light after dark.

They are so stupid and easy to kill.

My guess is it's because they are babies, new with spring.

Everything was green but then snow came and now the buds are brown, but I see the green peaking through again and I am urging them on.

"It's getting better all the time"

I hope our tree gets filled with flowers. I can't wait to find out what color.

I love living in a place where nothing happens - there's already so much.

Owi told me once that the cheapest way to travel is with pen and paper.

I am learning to drive and my instructor tells me that it is a metaphysical activity.

The neighborhood is full of 1920's brick apartment buildings and victorian houses.

To die for.

I build traps for myself and break out of them, perpetually.

Like all writers do.