So I’ve been fielding question after imaginary question from you, hypothetical reader, about how things are going with my coffee machine. No need to be on the edge of your fancy seat made of air; my new coffeemaker and I have reached an understanding.
We both ignore the built-in coffee grinder, politely pretending it doesn’t exist, and voila, coffee is made.
Confession time: I originally wrote “viola.” Whether I think that’s your name, hypothetical reader, or I was addressing the instrument, I couldn’t tell you.
So on we go, intrepid hypothetical reader, coffee in hand, into realms imagined. Or not quite imagined yet. Somewhere in the process of imagining.
Something like that.
Because admit it or not, we all have our writing rituals.Mine can change depending on the time of year or what I’m writing; as the weather chills, I need big mugs of hot liquid, steam curling in the light of the window. Even if I get so wrapped up in what I’m writing I forget to drink that big mug of hot liquid until it becomes a big mug of tepid liquid, but we all have our issues.
And our days to get on with. So here we go.
Just one more sip of coffee first.
For more on my thoughts about Charlottesville and rising bigotry, please read An Open Letter to My Friends of Color.
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