The Gift of Accountability

photo_1374_wide_largeAs he warmed the mug into which he would pour the first of my three cups of decaf, Kirk, the barista at the coffee shop where I show up every day to struggle to put words on my computer screen, said, “You’re late.”

It was true. I had come in at 9 a.m., instead of my usual 8 a.m. That morning I had decided, since the quarter was officially over, I would give myself a break. I would sleep later in the mornings, not worry about meeting a daily word count on my writing, and spend the afternoons running with my dog and reading good novels.

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