Part of the writing process, at least today, has been watching robins suck worms from the front lawn of this rented house in Maine. B and I are here for the week to write. The house is old and exposes much of its raw wood. The stove is gas and tricky, and the beds are lumpy and comfortable. I chose this place randomly after hours of looking at the offerings of AirBnB. I realized that what I should really focus on was the inside of the house, not how far it was from a beach or coffee shop. And once that criteria was established, this place came into view and I knew it would be ours. Because of the bookcases and artwork. Because of the island in the kitchen. Because the couch is moved a ways away from the wall. And it’s perfect. It’s deep in the country and distractions are minimal (see: robins, worms) and I have written 20 pages, plus three blog posts for both work and personal in the 26 hours we have been here. A chicken is roasting in the tricky oven and I have a glass of wine balanced on the windowsill over the wooden bench on which my computer rests. I’m using an ottoman for my bum. The window ahead of me is open four inches and raindrops plunk on something metal out there, something out of sight, something that provides a sweet base for my soprano key strokes. I am in the kind of space where, if I had a stopwatch given to me by the devil, I might just press that button to pause all of space and time so I could stay. But, of course, before I could press, I’d think of my husband, my children, the men I left at home. And I’d hesitate and the moment would mutate. But still. Right now, the planets are aligning in a way they rarely do. I might squeeze 25 pages out of the day.