Anticipation

The sentence slides up and off the page at me. Well-balanced, nice use of metaphor, good insight into the character. Always a nice surprise.

It is lunchtime and I sit in my car between errands at the Auto Club and the post office. I am reading the submission of a member of my writing group for our next meeting.

I am filled with the desire to go home, rather than back to work -- to roll up my sleeves and bury myself in my own words for the afternoon -- NOT to sit at my desk at work and sort through financial documents for a client. I have a burning, pressing itch to spend the rest of the day writing, when my energy is good and I'm not distracted by fatigue or hunger, when I still have enough of me to give to myself -- to get to write out the scene that's been rolling around in my mind before it is forever gone.

Is that a touch of congestion in my sinuses? Can I possibly justify calling in sick?

I look up at the sun beaming down through my windshield, feel the fresh spring breeze and know that I feel great. No edge of malaise anywhere.

Grr.

Will I still have the passion, the energy, the urgency to sit at the computer when I get home at 8 tonight? I can promise myself, I can hope, but I know it's unlikely. I will prefer to sit and talk to my husband, maybe have a glass of wine and play with the cats while I watch an episode of "Lie to Me."

I work hard to remind myself that that's OK too.