It looks like this: the old sweatshirt and mismatched socks and the pearl bracelet not yet slipped off and I am here: on the couch with the white pillows and the yellow blanket and BBC is on the screen because we've just gotten home from a dinner out after the second interview of the week and I am bursting-- slightly concerned that I have grown addicted to resume writing and application planning.  If I could just stay here in the gray space of sweatpants and pearls, I think I would do pretty well, really.

And there is something intoxicating about this space, here where anything could be anything and I could maybe work in a classroom or in a boutique or at a front desk and only part time because we have decided this:  I will write.

It might end poorly.  It may be a terrible, terrible flop.  I could spend hours and days and months on something that doesn't become anything to anyone else but I'm feeling a little daring these days and he is being the best support of the whole flaky, flimsy, fantastic plan.

I'm going to pretend to be a writer.  And I'm going to sit at a desk every day from this time to that time and it is going to a great exercise.  I'm going to pretend in the beginning but somewhere along the way I am hoping it shifts into a bit more.