Come sit a spell. Have an iced coffee with me.
Iced coffee has become my fuel. When I read that coffee is good for me, I
threw discussion to the wind, gave out a loud whoop, and grabbed the coffee
grinder.
Now I see coffee is touted even in Dr. Oz’s magazine.
“You live longer…”
“Feel happier, remember more.”
“Work out harder.”
Sounds good to me.
This
is my favorite at home coffee: #Peets
“House Blend,” fresh ground beans, French Press coffee pot.
Easy,
boil filtered water, pour into pot over grounds, stir, let set a few minute,
push plunger. Viola’ great coffee.
I might have a hot cup, but the rest of the
day it is iced—with real good ole organic half and half. I have no wasted
coffee, and the amazing thing is it never tastes stale. It can sit overnight
and still be good.
This
is a far cry from when I learned to drink coffee with dishwater tasting
coffee perked in the dental lab, while trying to make it palatable with powdered
creamora. My reason for enduring it? I was trying to stave off hunger until one o'clock.
Whoops,
I got carried away. I intended to tell
you a fish story.
I
went into my accountant’s office the other day to pick up the tax forms, and, I saw a tiny placard on his wall, “I love
Fishing.”
“You’re
a fisherman,” I said.
His
eyes lit up, and he pushed a sheet of paper toward me. It was a short story,
just a few paragraphs. I was surprised and delighted that he wrote a story. I
read of his experience on the creek bank, the sparkling day, him throwing out
his line, a bite, the fish hitting his line with full force. It fought with all
its might, and as he had no net, he managed to wrestle it onto dry ground.
Success.
He landed the fish.
“My
friend thought we ought to capture this
monumental moment on film,” he said and shoved an 8 x 11 picture across his
desk.
He
was all decked out in fishing gear.
I
looked closely, “Where’s’ the fish?” I asked.
“There,
in my hand.”
Well,
there was a tiny silver streak. The fish must have been about four inches long.
“It hit that line with its whole two ounces,”
he said.
That
reminded me, once again, of the little accountant in the movie, #You Can’t Take I with You when Grandpa asked what the accountant
what he would like to do, and he pulled a toy bunny from beneath his desk.
“Make toys,” he said.
When
a person is doing what they love to do their entire countenance glows.
And
I wonder again what has been pecking at me for a long time, “How does one do
the thing they want and get paid for it?” For without pay, you must work at
something else.
#Jonathan
Mead writes about, and offers coaching on “#Paid to Exist.”
I
haven’t gotten it yet—either him or the concept.
Make
it work,
Joyce
P.S. I got advice from an agent the
other day. She said, “If you haven’t finished your book finish it.”
If you don’t have a platform, Build one.”