The morning began as most as winter workdays do, which is to say dark, and because of that, what felt far too early to me.
This year, I made a conscious effort to remember my writing birthday – to commemorate it on the actual day, or if nothing else, to at least make note of it. February 12: in truth, an arbitrarily-chosen day meant to mark the start of my first (incomplete, shelved) novel as approximated through a forensic accounting some emails I sent to a friend around that time.
I’m an Aquarius writer.
I made a point some time ago to inform the IT manager at my workplace that I’m writing a novel.
Partly I did this because I’ve struck up a friendship with her over the years, and the fact eventually became a relevant addendum to her revelation of being an avid reader.
The other reason, though – perhaps the more pressing reason – is due to the nature of some of the emails I send.
Not that they’re offensive, or in any direct violation of the company’s Information Services & Technology user policy. But they are … strange, not the least of which is because they are emails send to myself at my personal email address.