I’m waking up. Slowly. Again. Nice! Thanks!

What’s the time? The clock says 6: 09 a.m. It’s always 9 minutes fast, so that’s 6. Not too early. I could go back to sleep for an hour. Or I could get up.

I roll over and listen to my hubby making little ruffling noises as he breathes out. Comforting.

What day is it? Wednesday. What date is it? Well, yesterday was May 22nd. It must be May 23rd.

What’s on today? Can’t remember. Nothing? No, I think there’s something. Not early though. I could go back to sleep. Or I could get up.

Shall I write first or walk first? Or shower first and then walk and then write?

The sun is already coming up, lighting the room. Warming me.

What a delicious time of day. A time of indecision. The day stretches ahead promisingly, invitingly.

Last night we went from Mary’s 350-word flash fiction piece to Todd’s 145,000-word first novel—from the sublime to the how-on-earth-did-you-write-so-many-words? And someone said that CAA would be having an Open Mic in June. Did I sign up? Am I too late?

My body acts before me. I’m pushing myself out of bed, leveraging myself upright on my elbow. Pushing up. Feet to the floor, finding my crocs. Hanging my glasses around my neck. Picking up the water glass from the bookcase.

I have to pee first. Take an antibiotic. Take out my mouthguard. Put on a dressing gown. Grab my clothes for walking later. Drink a glass of water with the juice of half a lemon. Start my porridge cooking.

Now. Now.

Sitting down in front of the computer without turning it on, I find paper. I pick up a pencil. It feels solid between my fingers. It smells good—pencilly, familiar. I start to write with this pencil on this piece of paper, so visceral, so tangible, so tactile. A title: “A Morning Page: I’m waking up. Slowly.”