The Old Man Writes v2.0

Every morning now, with few exceptions, The Old Man writes. He wakes early, somewhere between 5am and 7am, after not sleeping well, anyway, and shuffles to the kitchen in his old man slippers to start the coffee. As the carafe fills, he makes his way across the worn linoleum passed the basement stairs, through the half-bath, into the back room. He pulls back the drapes in front of the sliding glass door wall for the morning sun, if there happens to be any today, and boots up his computer.

A mug of hot coffee with a splash of milk and one packet of sweetner steams in his hand, because the furnace still hasn't caught up with the thermostat that he ticked up to 64 degrees, which is just warm enough and probably still higher than he can afford. He sits down and, after a slurp of coffee, decides what he will work on first, which story or novel chapter. Some days he's lucky to get one good sentence committed to the electronic page. But that is enough. More will come. Until it doesn. Then....

When The Old Man was a younger man, he wanted to be his generations Hemingway. He'd been reading Papa before he'd decided to try and write. He read with this blessed feeling that said, I could never do that, but I could do that. And so, he tried. For years. And for years he was defeated. He still proceeds with the expectation of being defeated, but still he tries. He pushes out his skiff, battles through the surf, and sets sail for calm, deep water in which to cast his line.

One good setence at a time in hopes that one day he will craft one good story. That is it, that is all.

As the sun begins to heat the back room and the furnace rests with a thunk and sigh, he knows it will be a good day. Already, he's written on good sentence. Warm up his coffee and return and perhaps one more will come. He won't know unless he tries.

He tries. He hopes for nothing. In this way, The Old Man Writes

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