Oh Monday. My office is empty while everyone recovers from a high-activity work weekend that I was not obligated to be a part of. I'm eating dry cereal and drinking Folgers that I made myself.
And I'm pondering this constant mystery: my husband always brews the coffee better than I do. Even Folgers. I'm gulping mine down, hoping that when I get to the bottom of the cup I will get to the bottom of what it is I am doing wrong to make it taste like... salty dirt in lukewarm water with nutty undertones. And hopefully I'll be able to extract what little caffeine is actually in this brew. I never seem to wind up getting the buzz I would get from a cup of good ole Starbucks. [Or is that just what my addiction is telling me?]
I'm also pondering - still - what I am supposed to write for my meeting with my writing partner this week. Bring something old that we're proud of, and something new that we've been working on... The only thing I've written outside of work in the last year is my journal and my blog. Good practice, but I want whatever we work on to be a venture into new territory. I want to work towards writing something that someone else will be willing to publish.
My ideal job: to be a writer for a newspaper or magazine.
So the constant question is: what do I have to contribute? What do I have to say that matters? How do I brew a good story?
I read others' pieces, and read my own. And I'm still trying to figure out what elements I am missing. What is it about my work that makes me feel... bland when I want it to be bold, sweet, refreshing?
I guess I'll have to write, edit, submit, repeat until I figure out how to infuse my thoughts and words together for the right story.