I am a woman of habit, a creature of routine, a lover of the predictable—and yet, as I spoon three heaping plastic spoonfuls of ground coffee into the filter just as I do every day at the Writing Center, I feel a surge of spontaneity (in a one-way ticket to Cambodia kind of way). I feel the muse bubbling up beneath my fingernails and the imperative need to express some inner revelation of values and life-things in readable form. Because of my schedule commitments (and lack of revelation), I will not quell my desire to hide next to a latte at Barista’s and write until the blisters on my fingers make it an impossibility. I will not use my soon-to-expire frequent flyer miles to jet of to Hawaii for the weekend. I won’t even deviate from my usual hazelnut creamer.
However, I will type like a fiend until my first appointment arrives, or until this unpredictability of sorts fades into the usual, the blasé, the choking normalcy of a fifth year in Kearney.