Tonight, the prose I managed to write came off as almost poetic. Not since last week have I felt this rush of energy that comes with prose that flows as naturally and beautifully as dialogue and, for the first time in a while, I’m a little proud of what I’ve accomplished tonight.
That said, I’m a little under the weather and seek to return to the warmth of my sofa that only an electric blanket, a space heater and one of my grandmother’s many quilts made especially for Dorienne! can bring.
I wrote 220 words (with a harsh huff and falling into his bed) tonight and I don’t feel simply lucky to get them as I have in the past, but rather, I’m glad that I wrote them.