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Today was back to work…for many, I suspect. And as I thought, it did me good.

I got up and just got to it…making lunches, feeding the cats, getting dressed. Then I went to work and tried to make sense of all those emails and all those priorities. On my lunch I paid bills. After work I did grocery shopping. There was no sleeping in until nine o’clock, no coffee with eggnog, no trips to San Francisco, no lobster & foie gras, no movies or plays. It was all very mundane…and just what I needed.

I sat down tonight and did my thirty minutes of writing, getting through a couple more letters. Now I’m sitting here doing my blog…no angst, no hollowness…just acceptance.

Granted, I still had a glass of champagne and a couple pieces of chocolate…but is it just possible that I’m the type of writer who needs work and mundanity to keep me productive? It’s very unromantic notion, but it just might be true.

For right now, at least…