And then. . .

All summer long, I've been a writer. I developed a schedule where I woke up at 8am every day, went to my boxing gym, came home by 10:15, had a protein shake, and wrote. I would write until almost 5pm. Some days were more productive than others. Even when I couldn't write, I refused to leave the seat in front of my computer. This often caused the hubs to hate my writer's block because I often You Tube'd DIY home improvement projects for us to complete on the weekend. Now the summer is over. Now, I am no longer a writer. I am a professor. Repeat. I am a professor. We all play different roles. For example, I am a daughtersisterauntwifeniecefriendwomansisterinlawbestfriendcoworkerreaderelpasoan writer.  I am always all of these things. But this summer my main focus was being a writer. I've never had that opportunity before, and I liked it. It sort of made me re-remember why I wanted to be a writer in the first place. And although that isn't over, I h...

I want to lie in bed for a few days and curl into the sheets until they become arms who embrace me as I sleep.  I want to sleep in until 9am, stretch in the sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window, and just stare with blurry vision at imagined dust motes.  I want to read voraciously,  the way I did when I was younger. I'd read through the night and force myself to shut the dog-eared pages when the sky night broke into indigo.  I want to curl into his arms, not because I'm tired, but because I can't help but breathe in the smell of his his hair even when it's ripe with the scent of last night's run.  I want to write until my book is finished, until the pages I've clung to for the last year finish their fight for freedom and I've nothing left but to begin again with something new.  I want to....

One of my favorite hobbies is people watching. I love to see how people gesture with their hands, the stride of their walks, arms swinging out, flicks of hair. There are so many messages being conveyed at once it's hard to ignore (either that or I'm creepy). Many times I use these people in my work when I write. I take interesting nervous ticks and shuffles, word choice and diction, and make them my character's. For example, today while walking around campus I saw a guy  with slunched shoulders, as if the backpack he was carrying itched. Without seeing his face I knew he was uncomfortable. It was as obvious as a girl who's had on cheap stilettos four hours past their comfort time. There was something interesting in the guy with the itchy backpack, and it wasn't until he turned that I realized why he was uncomfortable. Almost ever inch of his body was covered in tattoos. There was no order or reason to them, they weren't delicate pieces of labored artwork, th...