6710 Grand

It’s 4:33 and the sunrise alarm clock that is supposed to wake me up naturally is blaring orange light into my bedroom.  I have no idea how to turn it off because the 946 page instruction manual remains unread in my “to read” folder.  But it doesn’t matter.  Ike is crying and it’s time to get up anyway.  I pry myself out of bed, throw on my gym clothes and head downstairs.  The coffee pot is brewing.   I debate having a cup before my run but as I diaper my baby and snuggle him back to bed I know it’s not a smart choice.   One cup leads to seven and that means my morning run won’t happen.   And it MUST happen. Baby is back down for at least another hour so I head to the basement where my office and gym are waiting for me.   I’m immediately reminded of the things I meant to finish last night but didn’t and am momentarily tempted to tackle them now.   No.   You MUST run.   I open the windows in the gym and turn on two fans.   I start slow (ok, really slow for you runners) at 3.7 mph

 I'm so disappointed.  Someone famous literally said "here's what I want my headstone to read" and no one did it. I'm not a science fiction fan.  Not specifically.  I am, however, a fan of great writing.  So, I've been reading this book On Being a Writer  that's full of interviews of mostly old white (and now dead) men on what their life is like (er... was).  It's not exciting.  I'm not getting tons out of it.   One of the interviews was of Ray Bradbury.  There was a lot of blah blah blah about how he's great and his books are great.  Yeah yeah.  I get it.  But what I found really cool was what he said he wanted on his headstone when he died: "Here lies a teller of tales.  If he had lived ten centuries ago, you would have walked down a street in old Baghdad or in some Middle Eastern city and there among the menders of copper and the shapers of clay turned into a Street of the Story Tellers and found him seated there among the tellers of ta