Steam curls from your mug, the third cup more comfort than caffeine. The house is finally quiet, and your to-do list is… not. You glance at your launch plan, that big knot of hope and overwhelm, and think, There has to be an easier way.
The night my inbox felt like a chorus, the window was open and the city hummed. My mug left a faint ring on the desk, and the subject lines pulsed: “I finished at 3 a.m.,” “Can’t stop thinking about chapter 12,” “Do you have more like this?” The air smelled like paper and rain, and I could almost hear the turning of someone else’s page miles away.
The fog came early and thick, wrapping the street in a quiet that made the kettle’s whistle sound like a bird. You set a mug on the desk where scattered Post-its glowed like small flags, your latest draft tucked beneath a paperweight with a chipped corner. Somewhere a truck downshifted, somewhere else a neighbor laughed, and in the soft in-between, you could almost hear your book breathing. You don’t want to chase a trend; you want to be found.