The Muse

Every morning I write in my journal.  It's an old habit, from days of David Waggoner berating young, eager poets in his writing classes about the only way to become a poet is to keep a journal and drink copious quantities of alcohol (he was a student of Theodore Roethke and Dylan Thomas, both who wrote some really good poetry while they were drinking!).

I have this wonderful Old Hickory desk, which looks like it should be in the Old Faithful Lodge (in fact there is one just like it at Lake McDonald Lodge in Glacier National Park).  Every morning, after my run, I write.  Mostly a chronology of the previous day, but on rare occasion, I come up with some really great notion about this or that.  Ok, at 6:30 AM I think it's a great notion.  No editor ever does, but, in my mind it sure sounds good.  I love writing at this desk.  Even though I look out at a dogwood and hear the sounds of the city rather than a geyser, I feel transported to a different place every time I sit there.

Murphy has taken to laying near me as I write.  It's too warm or I am too lazy to build a fire in the morning, but it would be picturesque to have a fire, the gorgeous lab, and me, writing away.  She is, for certain, my muse.  I enjoy having her close by.  I can not think of any better way to start the day.

Murphy's day.