Real Writer Life

Jazz playing, I’m in my own little café.

Dryer pinging with clothes, the small snores of puppies ruffle the air.

They make my familiar background noise.

My disgruntled cat glares from her perch like a queen waging war.

A makeshift desk with my laptop sits like a life raft in the sea of house chores.

The urge to run is there, I ignore it and sit down.

A few hundred words later, I can breathe again.

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