The story takes place in the winter

She stepped into the February air and was surprised to not feel the biting sting of the forecasted eight degrees below. She had always run a bit hot, especially after a frantic effort to pull herself into presentable shape in the thirty minutes her delayed wakeup call had given, and rather than shiver in the cold she was relieved to let it pour over her. There is a delightful optimism to be felt in the time between threshold to cubicle. The day still holds such promise of to-do list items to be proudly crossed off and post-workday productivity in the form of yoga sessions, writing frenzies, and gourmet adventures. The reality is that more times than not upon crossing back through the portal that is the homestead she would find herself succumbing to the siren’s call of the sofa. But what if today she resisted?

The workday passed by in a grey haze of conference calls, email replies and menial tasks. While her heart did not flutter at the approach to her office building each day, it certainly appreciated the safety and comfort of an honest 40 hours and a guaranteed paycheck. She would daydream of owning a tea shop, a yoga studio, a book store – or all the above. Her heart would lift at the thought of her writing becoming more than simply a hobby, but a real bona fide profession. In public company she would meekly, shyly describe herself a writer, but it rang a false tune as her parents were the biggest fans of said writing. At the same time her heart would lift her stomach would plummet and she would instantly retreat to the safety of her nine to five. Trying was scary. Failing was assured.

And so to the sofa she would go at the end of each day. For the sofa meant no exploration of winsome possibilities. From the sofa no ideas would spark, no wanderlust would take hold, and no dangerous progress could be made on her ‘other’ interests. It was safe, it was snug, it was secure. And at her fingertips a wealth of distraction! Four hours and four episodes later would find her safely tucked in bed with no progress towards her passions.

Today though, today, she resisted. Perhaps it was the weather? Perhaps the uncharacteristic winter freeze warmed within her an uncharacteristic behavior. This time, when the siren call began to weave around her she took one rebellious glance toward the object of adventurous impediment and resisted. Snatching a pen, a pad and her tablet she retreated from the safety of home and back into the world. She wasn’t sure yet where to go, she just drove. The smell of hops beckoned, and with a mental image likening herself to Lewis or Tolkien sitting in a dim Oxford bar creating new worlds, she pulled into the lot of a neighborhood brewery and claimed her own dark corner. She sat down, and she began to write.

Today I decided to semi-creatively write. Thank you to the Seventh Sanctum for the writing challenge generator. Finding a place to start is always the hardest part.

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