Yesterday was just another day.
It was the kind of a day where we go about our business in the company of one another. Another day in a long line of days of being together where nothing special happens.
Husband transplanted his cacti. He'd done so on Saturday and continued it yesterday.
Such matters are a labour of love for him. He is happiest when he is amongst the plant kingdom. On a level only he understands they are his kith and kin and he is charged with their care.
I was busy at my manuscript. I needed to go over it and take notes so I can start work on the long synopsis for the proposal package. I will work on the package while the hard copy cools enough for me to find my mistakes.
As I made my notes over the past few days I found places that required more work, more words, more thought. I made notes on that as well and will attend to them when I go over the version I printed out.
Husband was busy with plants, I with my words.
It was a good day. A normal day. A day where nothing special happens. It was a wonderful day, and for it I am grateful.
Interview, of Me, in Iowa, In Which I Talk About Writing
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