the days feel more real when i take notes.

I take a simple view of living. It is to keep your eyes open and get on with it. -- Laurence Olivier

Perfect toast and hazelnut coffee to start with. As starts go, that's not bad. (Someone needs to write a sonnet about perfect toast. Amber-colored, and the butter oozing into the holes? Yeah. That's what we want.)

And there was a run--my fourth! It's great to be outside... though running in thirty-eight degrees is a bit different from running in sixty-eight. Just to let you know.

Browsed some wonderful cooking blogs (like Joy's, Molly's, and Aran's). You know what's dangerous about food blogs? They make me dream about opening a café, a real bricks-and-mortar café, with the steamy windows and a bell on the door. Making crepes, soups, tea, and decadent chocolate amazingness.

Really. I can just see myself handing out warm scones and refilling mugs with coffee and wisdom...

Wisdom? Am I that wise? What would I say to myself, right now, if I were the customer with the empty mug?

No idea. Back to the novel, then.

I wrote the conversation scene, the one I'd been worrying about. I worried about it on my run. I worried about it in the shower. Usually all the brilliant ideas show up when there's water and soap, but not today.

But my character was ready when I got to the desk. I knew none of my dialogue ideas would work, but she knew what she wanted to say, and it was just right. Inspired! Effortless! And maybe even a little funny. We hope.

And then, what's left? I'll make myself a few promises: about spring cleaning. About running errands that I usually put off. About finishing all the knitting projects I've begun and then set aside. (Hmm. Knitting. Time to daydream springy things to make for the store. Time for a spring update, in fact!)

Finally my after-dinner date with Monsieur Victor Hugo and Les Miserables. He probably has more to say about the riots of 1832. And then, hopefully, a lot more about Jean Valjean, whom I can't help adoring.

And then there's poor foolish Marius and poor silly Cosette. I like them, but I also kind of want to kick them. Am I allowed to say that? I'm about fifty pages behind schedule, but maybe tonight's the night I get caught up.

Me, Victor Hugo, and a huge cup of tea. Just the right ending.