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.