Monday, Monday,

So good to me.

It was everything I hoped it would be.

I woke up and ran all by myself, with the household fast asleep until I finished.

Apparently, time change meant no tiny audience watching Netflix and interrupting my (admittedly slow) treadmill exercise.

And then I went to work- but this morning, I had miraculously booked the time off work, and forgotten until the last minute.

This meant from 830-1130, all I did was work on edits for a book. I had so much uninterrupted time that I got through 112 pages.

Of a 196 page book.

Of a book I don’t even plan to publish until fall, at the earliest.

Spinning with possibilities, I again considered the captivating idea of what I could accomplish if I wrote full time.

I could write to my hearts content,

If only.

I sighed and returned to work.

It was a good day; full of familiar, low key and happy faces. I finished in time, printed out my receipts for taxes, and got the older two from karate after picking up ribs and cheese toast from the grocery store for supper.

A good Monday, and a tantalizing glimpse into what life could be like, if every morning was for writing, and every afternoon was for regular life.

Maybe someday.