I’ve become quite dependent on these iced coffees from #lacolombe. My coffee maker isn’t broken, and yes it’s chilly and dreary as fuck where I live, but they cornered the market on delicious. I desperately need the extra shots to keep me lucid enough to read, jot some ideas down, and visit the gym later.
I’ve decided, today, right now, to stop obsessing over when I go to said gym. I want to sit and read today. I buy from #thriftbooks half a dozen books every month or so, and they need some love. I get antsy however, sitting here at home too much, even though I prefer here to work and literally any other place occupied by people. I wish they didn’t annoy me so, really. But my job is overwhelmingly social and by the time I clock out on Sunday evenings, I’m ready to run screaming from the establishment, almost knocking over my boss (sorry Geoff) in the process.
So, the book, “Ernest Hemingway ~on~ Writing” has been burning a hole on my table for weeks now since it’s arrival. I imagined I’d be magically whisked off to some quiet tavern replete with fireplace, cozy chair, and no one who knows me the moment I opened it up. I am, instead, in my comfy leather chair by the window at home and excited for this read. He has long been my favorite writer of the twentieth century, of the American classics, of the kind of rich emotions and imagery one can elicit from ordinary life.
I’ll let you know how it goes. If all goes well, I’ll get back to writing my short stories and stop yelling at people drag racing down my street while the middle school kids are leaving. Krampus still in effect!