There are mornings that are for reading. The book of choice comes easily, settling in to the chair is effortless, and the coffee is perfect. I head down the rabbit hole of an author’s beautiful mind, with glee.
Then there are other mornings. Nothing feels right. The books are not calling out. The chair is not comfortable. The coffee has cooled.
That’s the tug.
Writing is tugging at my shirt sleeve, gently urging me to pay attention. If I choose to ignore the tugging, it will stop. I make that choice occasionally. How sad for writing. To want to inspire and be turned away.
So I listen. And then I write.