I don't like Mondays. They're worse than Sundays. I woke up tired and dreary and grumpy and Rice is up north. It's like spring outside, only a bit more chilly. It's been raining, and the air is misty and the sky is gray. LD has decided he likes to bite my toes, which would be okay, I suppose, except for the two bottom teeth he's sprouted.

But I have a life to live and things to do, so I forced myself up out of bed and made myself go about my day.

I haven't written much of anything for a couple of weeks, and I've been twitchy, wanting to write, but between our travels and house cleaning and mothering and wifeing and all of those things, there hasn't been much time. I can write in my head, and think in my head, but physiologically there is actually something about the process of writing, the act of putting words to paper, whether it be by pen or keyboard, that is a relief and a high, that just thinking can't match. Just thinking can't satisfy the itch. So I started writing. Not what I was intending to write, but there's a story there, just below the surface of my consciousness, that would like to get out. So I sat down and opened the door.

It may be that it's finally afternoon. It may be the lovely tea I'm sipping on. It may be that LD quit chewing on my toes. But I doubt it.

I am definitely feeling better. A good way to start a new year -- with a brand spanking new story, written in a new way, or at least in a way I haven't written for over a decade.