In the past week, I've found a renewed dedication to becoming a full-time writer and working from home.
Currently, Keith leaves for work about a half-hour before I do. In the past, this has been a source of great pleasure. I leisurely get up after him, kiss him good-bye, and then take my time getting ready for work. Drink some tea, eat some cereal, watch a little "Good Morning America" (despite Charlie, who drives me crazy). It's a nice, relaxing way to start the day.
Since we got the dog, things have been different. I now get up an HOUR earlier so I can take the dog on a 45-min to an hour-long walk. We get back just as Keith as leaving and then I hop in the shower, scarf down breakfast, and rush out the door.
And yet, this is not the problem. It's not the rushing, which would be easily solved if I could drag myself out of bed 15 minutes earlier. (Which, of course, is harder than it sounds.) The real impetus for working from home is that I really, really hate leaving the dog.
This morning, as I ate breakfast, he came and sat by my side to be petted. I could picture it: after breakfast, I take another mug of tea up to the study to get started for the day. Beckett follows me and settles in on the comfy armchair while I get situated at the computer. When I need a break, we head out into the backyard for a vigorous game of fetch.
In the afternoon, I do briefly leave Beckett in his crate for an hour or two while I run errands. However, this means that when Keith gets home, we don't have to leave him again. Everybody's happy and feels loved.
Of course, the dog is probably sleeping right now, completely unaware that I'm not home. But imagining the idyllic scene is enough to push me toward the cycle of querying and rejection, with the hope that it ends differently this time, and I don't have to get up before dawn anymore.