Good afternoon, gentle readers.
As I sit here, typing these words, sunlight filters through the condensation of my bedroom windows, bathing the room in ochre light. The air smells faintly of fresh laundry and soap; a small space heater hums contentedly.
It's an idyllic scene, I suppose.
Perhaps that's why I'm writing again.
And before everyone starts bouncing in their seats in anticipation, like a small child in desperate need of the toilet, let me quantify that by saying I'm writing a little.
There is no flood of productivity pouring forth from my innermost being or anything like that. Rather, it's a lukewarm trickle. The kind of stream one gets when one doesn't close the faucet all the way.
Sorry to disappoint.
But, I'm writing.
I'm writing and that makes me feel like everything is falling into place. The condo is coming along, I've successfully surfed the waves of change engulfing the store and the future seems to have less pointy bits in it than expected.
That's always a good sign.
So, what next?
More writing. Hopefully, a finished novel by the end of the year.
More work on the condo. Paint! Carpet! Furniture! (You don't know the luxury of a chair until you don't have any.)
Who knows? Maybe a big lottery win?
We can only cross our fingers and hope.