Anne Lamott says Mondays are bad for writing.

She goes so far as to say that one, "one" being you, the aspiring writer, should never endeavor to begin an important project on a December Monday, December being the Month of Mondays.

Perhaps.

She also speaks (kindly) to a lot of important concepts for the creatrix: the importance of the Shitty First Draft. The soundness of the Short Assignment. The eminently sensible principle of Not Beating Oneself Up, a.k.a. the Scourge of Perfectionism.

I did work today and I wrote today. Some okay work and a horrendous Shitty First Draft of a new Chapter One. Forgive me for not sharing all, I hate to be coy, but to fill you in on every last detail would be to spread my seed rather too thinly. And as the kind of gal who always half-wished she was a dude (the freedom! the equipment!), I'm excited enough to have seed to spread, period.

At some point today, when the slanting sun had crept high enough so as to make work in my otherwise otherworldly-perfect workspace unbearable, I crept out and up the hill for a coffee. While there, feasting on caffeinated beverages that only get this good because of fierce competition, I received a call from my gal, gelatobaby, who, coincidentally, is here tearing up the town...with her mother.

An invitation to dinner! From two ladies who know their culinary stuff far better than I can hope to in a thousand lifetimes! How could I say anything but "yes"?

We met, we supped, we plotted. They treated me to the finest dinner I've had in months (oh, god, the carpaccio! the mussels!) and dropped me on their way back down the hill. I hadn't the groceries I'd intended to get on my way up, but was fed better than I possibly could have been by my own hand and the Safeway.

Part of what I am here to do is what I planned. The rest? What just comes up.

In serendipity we trust. Good night, Seattle!

xxx c