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Labor of Love

I imagine a dark, inky, brown desk with old carvings and rusty drawers which atop would settle my 1940s typewriter. Although who am I kidding?, one of those would be a fortune. A laptop it is. I'd read news articles all day, composing stories and literature work to submit for publishing all the while editing works from fellow writers as well. I swivel in my chair, maybe kick my feet up on the desk and sip some British coffee, whatever that is. It's the creamy and smooth stuff, the kind where you pick up little sugar cubes with dainty silver tongs and drop it into teacups intricately designed with flowers and cherubs and blue birds peeking out from behind lush crops. Maybe there'll be music slipping into the atmosphere from the vintage record player I found in the attic. King Cole and Fitzgerald will be serenading long into the night. In the morning I'll find myself buried beneath books and fan letters and front page newspapers with my face plastered on it of how I'v...
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