Flew home from San Diego this morning, leaving my hotel room at 4 a.m. I am not a morning person. Fortunately, I fell asleep at seven the previous night.
Good thing I did, too, because I woke up ready write. Once I checked in at the airport, I ate a bunch of eggs. And I wrote. And I wrote. And I wrote. Then I boarded the plane, bidding goodbye to weather so beautiful it hurt. Then I wrote. And I wrote. I listened to music, and I wrote.
Eventually I landed in Atlanta, where I ate a sandwich and wrote. And wrote. Boarded the plane, wrote some more. I've been handwriting lately, something I haven't done in about five years. For whatever reasoin, it is really working out for me. At the end of the day I had fifty yellow legal pad pages--the drafts of one new short story, and another chapter or so of a new book I'm working on.
Maybe I should just turn my office into a guest bedroom, hang out in airports and fly all over the country. I'd probably get more done.