It’s Christmas Eve, and like every day I don’t have to go to my day job, I’m up early. It's strange how that works. Heaven knows that on a typical Thursday, I can barely drag my butt out of bed in time to make it to work on time. But this is not a typical day. It’s Christmas Eve.
Being up so early has several benefits. The house is quiet, except for the ticking cuckoo clock. I started a fire in the woodstove, and it snaps and pops from time-to-time, but I like that. It reminds me of my grandparents home when I was very young. I suppose I even like the clock, but it wasn’t always so.
When my partner first moved in, and wanted to hang that monstrosity on my living room wall, I balked. The cuckoo has a stag on top, and a hare and pheasant hanging upside down on the front. Dead carved animals. Just what my décor screamed for. But I confess I’ve gotten used to the chiming, especially in the night. And one clock is a small concession for those finer things the man brings to my life.
The winter solstice is past, and the days are getting longer. Already I sense the difference in the light. It’s still early, and the world outside my window has been cast in shades of gray, but the moment when the sunlight sneaks in under any cloud cover, and what colors found in winter appear, is upon me. The tiny green holly tree outside my window is a thing of beauty against the white snow, as are the cardinals hopping around on the snow, coaxing for a handout.
There is also that old saying, “red sky at morn, sailors be warned.” The sky to the west is quite pink, but as long as I can write, all warm and cozy in front of my monitor, let it snow, sleet, rain, whatever.
I need to get writing. I’ve crested the 10K mark in the current work-in-progress. That’s almost a third of this story, or so I think. It may go a bit longer depending on what the characters have to say about it. I do want to get it done, so that means no more promo work until it’s finished. Some writers can do lots of promo work and still churn out several thousand words a day, but I’m not one of them.
The writing will have to wait one more hour. The man of the house has shuffled out of the bedroom, moaning, in need of caffeine. I’ll spend a little time sitting at the dining room table with him, watching the birds, and then he’ll have to amuse himself for a few hours while I write.
It’s Christmas Eve.
KC Kendricks
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