It’s my usual time to write my novel, first thing in the morning.  I make myself a cup of Twinings Prince of Wales, fidgeting through the time it takes to steep.  I turn the radio on to Minnesota Public Radio and hope that they’re playing something I like.  When the tea is ready I stuff my nose into the cup and breathe in the musty fragrance.  I let whatever is playing sink into my morning as I look out the window at Irvine Park, the center of my existence.  As I relax into my world, I’m ready to write.  I’m motivated.

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