You get your transmissions at your front door and then you get old

I’ve spent a quiet morning reading the news. It was blissful at the time; and then I realized the whole thing had passed, and I hadn’t written a word, and I’d wasted hours of sunlight that I could have been pretending to be a working writer (or at least buying groceries).

Self: do better! This is the year of striving.

(As if all those other years were not. Still.)

I have four more vacation days this winter, and–happy coincidence–four stories I owe myself by the first day of spring. Go forth!

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